Uprising
by pattyrose
Summary: 1775: Revolution is in the air. American Patriot, Edward Cullen knows this. He plots, plans, and eagerly prepares for the colonies' unified uprising. But, when he meets the lovely Miss Swan, British Loyalist, it's the uprising within his heart which sets them down a dangerous path. *2nd Place Judges' Vote Winner in the 2017 Age of Edward Contest - Now extended to a full story.*
1. Chapter 1 - The Incident with the Tea

**A/N: Good Morning! This was part of my entry for the Age of Edward Contest. It received Second Place in the Judges Vote. I'm truly honored.**

 **Anyway, I'm continuing the story. I don't have an exact posting schedule yet, but I'm thinking twice a week, probably Mondays and Fridays. It was a long entry, lol, as most of my writing tends to be, so I'm splitting the initial post into three. Here's the first part.**

 **Of course, the entire entry, as well as all the other wonderful entries, is available on the Age of Edward 2017 fanfiction page, but please note I've made some edits/changes/additions, so it'll be slightly different.**

 **The original entry was betad by the lovely Michelle Renker Rhodes.**

 **Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest is mine.**

 **Summary: 1775: There is a revolution coming. American Patriot, Edward Cullen knows this. He plots, plans, and eagerly prepares for the colonies' unified uprising. But, when he meets the lovely Miss Swan, British Loyalist, it's the uprising within his heart which may put them both in danger.**

* * *

 **Chapter 1 – The Incident with the Cargo**

 **December 22, 1774 – Greenwich, Cumberland County, New Jersey**

"'Tis a damn cold evening."

Jasper's shivers cause his teeth to chatter. Whether his chills are due to the frigid night or due to the purpose for which we are here, I cannot discern.

"Aye. 'Tis the sort of evening where a body might do well with the warmth of a…"

I shake the remainder of that blasphemous thought from my head before it leads me to treason. Nevertheless, Jasper must guess the rest.

"Aye," he chuckles rather wistfully.

Rubbing my hands together for friction, I narrow my lips and blow hot breath on them. Then, I inch forward and focus my gaze beyond the brick corner of the tannery across the square. For a few seconds, the heavy snowfall and my swirling breath block the view. When both dissipate, Jasper whispers.

"Look, there be Emmett."

Emmett lurks within the building's shadows. Similar to Jasper and I, he has affixed a mass of turkey feathers to the headscarf tied 'round his head. Red and black dye streak his face. Unlike Jasper and I, Emmett sports no shirt. His long hair is parted and plaited past his bare shoulders. His breeches are tattered and torn to the upper thighs. Neither does he wear stockings.

"That mad, son of a bachelor," Jasper murmurs. "His cock shall freeze right off."

"Aye, but then Em is not the sort to perform tasks in mere half measures, is he?"

We share quiet snorts.

I too am willing to do much for _The_ _Cause_ , for my homeland, and for its future children. I will tar feathers to my headscarf and paint lines 'cross my face. I will break into and destroy another man's property. I will risk a visit to the stocks and pillory, and I will chance a public flogging with the _cat 'o nine tails,_ which generally accompanies such a visit.

But in these wintry conditions, I shall keep my breeches intact and safeguard my cock. At one-and-twenty years of age, I have had little opportunity to apply it to good use. 'Tis a pitiful fact I should someday like to remedy.

We here in the colony of New Jersey have been fortunate for the most part, if one may refer to the past few years as fortuitous. Over the course of these years, the Crown's attention has been diverted by the rebellious acts enacted by our brothers further north. All that may change as of this eve. Yet, we go forth in this endeavor with full knowledge of that possibility.

I sweep my gaze past Em and further down the dark square, where behind another building's corner, Jacob the Free Man awaits my signal. He is disguised much as the rest of us. Thankfully, the marketplace is for the most part abandoned at this time of eve, save for the occasional boy with his seditious pamphlets or the vagabonds searching for pockets to lighten.

When these find their way out of the square, I step from the shadows, and Emmett nods to me. With a sharp nod of my own, our scheme is set in motion.

Emmett releases an ear-splitting Indian call. As one, forty men return this call of the wild while rushing toward the building. 'Tis a warrior cry marking us as sons of this land, sons of liberty and _not_ of the tyrant who sits upon a throne in a faraway land where most of us have never stepped foot.

Jacob throws the brick through the window, then Eric leaps through the broken pane and quickly unlocks the door. The rest of us pour into the house, yelling and howling.

Daniel Bowen, the Loyalist traitor, appears almost instantly. He wears his long shirt, sleep cap, and sports a rifle. We carry sticks. Unlike the red-coated scum currently holding these colonies in its grip, we are patriots, not murderers. As proof, Bowen raises his weapon, but Emmett lunges and snatches it before the man may fire.

"How dare you invade my home in this manner! What do you think you are you doing?" Bowen enquires when Jasper pulls his arms behind his back.

As I provide the rope to bind him, a woman screams from a chamber further down the narrow hall. I look at Jasper, and with my jaw, gesture toward the chamber.

"Ensure the wife is secured."

Jasper moves toward the bedchamber, and I assume the task of binding.

"If my wife is harmed, I shall see you hang!"

I push Bowen onto a chair, and Emmett takes the rope, winding it 'round both man and seat. Once he is well bound, I lean in and clarify things for the Tory gentleman.

"I give you my word, sir, my men and I mean you and your wife no harm. We are merely here for the cargo."

Instead of appearing comforted, the man's eyes bulge.

"Ah," I grin, "did you believe no one saw you and your friends unload the cargo onto our coastline?"

"That cargo belongs to the crown!"

"That cargo insults every man, woman, and child in this colony; nay, everyone in this nation, and we mean to rectify the situation."

"'Tisn't a nation," he hisses in turn. "'Tis merely a settlement of the King!"

I press together my lips, for Tory traitors do not see their treason, and I shall not waste my breath on a useless endeavor.

"Tell us where the cargo may be found, and we shall not long impose on your hospitality."

He sets his mouth and shoulders in defiance. "I shall see you face the gallows."

"That may be, sir," I smirk, "but if I am to face the gallows, you must tell me where to find the cargo so I may incriminate myself with it."

The men around us chuckle. Bowen's lips form an implacable line.

"Captain Bowen," I sigh, "you may withhold the information for as long as you wish, for I have forty hale and hearty men at my disposal and a score more not far from these parts," I lie. "Despite your plentiful Loyalist friends here in Cumberland County, there shall be no one riding to your rescue lest they wish to meet with my _Mohawks_."

"You are not real Indians," he sneers.

"What gave us away?" Jacob the Free Man snickers.

Bowen's eyes rake up and down Jacob's bare-chested form. "In your case, not even an Indian's skin is as black and filthy as-"

When Jacob swiftly raises a powerful arm to strike the man, Bowen flinches, providing me the fraction of a second necessary to still Jacob's massive hand.

"Have a care with your words, sir," I warn Bowen, "for insults at this moment do your situation no favors."

"You gave your word I would not be harmed!"

"And because I am a man of my word, I shall not allow my friend to strike you _._ But you have now offended him, and I gave no promise regarding your possessions." I rise back to my full height. "We _will_ have the cargo, even if we must tear down this house to retrieve it. Make this easier on yourself and on your property by telling us where to look."

When he turns away from me and refuses to oblige, I nod a signal to the eagerly waiting men.

"Search the house."

Before the last word leaves my mouth, Jacob and a few of the more anxious amongst us begin knocking down furniture. Again, the wife screams.

"Sarah!" Bowen yells. "Worry not! 'Tis only the furniture being abused!"

"No! No, not my furniture!"

"Sir, I do believe she would prefer to hear the breaking of your bones rather than her furnishings," Jacob snickers.

Bowen huffs indignantly. "Instruct them to stop this madness this very moment, or it shall be you whom I hold responsible!"

"Tell me where to find the cargo."

He squares his jaw.

For the next few minutes, furniture is turned over and carelessly tossed about, while the mistress of the house screams like a banshee.

"My Queen Anne chairs!" she exclaims at one point, evidently so fond of them she recognizes the sound each makes upon breakage. "Husband, I beseech you! Make them stop!"

Bowen sits bound and defiant.

"Husband, they are destroying all my lovely items!"

When the tinkling of something delicate filters through the house, the madam appears to reach her limit.

"For the love of God, not my tea set! Desist! If my husband does not tell you where the cargo is, I shall tell you!"

I quirk an eyebrow at Bowen. "Shall we have it from the mistress or from you? Either one will serve. Or, if you prefer, we may continue with the-"

"In the cellar," he spits through his teeth. "Tis all in the cellar!"

I offer him a mock bow. Then, whistling through my teeth, I turn toward the destruction. "Very well, men, stop!"

The destruction ceases. Yet, in the ensuing silence, what sounds like a lone teacup strikes a wall and shatters.

From her bedchamber, the wife wails.

No, we are not fond of tea sets.

OOOOOOOOOO

'Tis almost as cold below stairs as it is outdoors. I assume it keeps the cargo fresh. A lot of care has apparently been given the treasonous cargo unloaded in the smaller, and what the British likely supposed was safer, waters of Cohansey Creek, New Jersey.

We shall now teach those English tyrants not to think our colony weaker than the rest. Though we may be Tory-infested due to our proximity to New York, we shall show the British that we stand completely and irrevocably with our sisters and brothers in Philadelphia, Boston, Charleston, and Yorktown. Let them enact their _coercive_ and retaliatory acts here, for they shall regret it.

The men lay what is likely needless siege to the contents of the cellar – for the crates are clearly marked and labeled in the corner of the room. When we finally work our way to the crates, each man heaves one on his shoulder and carries it above stairs.

Bowen scowls when he espies me. "You still have time to stop this madness or you shall pay dearly for confiscating the Crown's property!"

"I assure you, sir, _confiscation_ is not our intention."

We carry the cargo out of the house and into the snowy street, where a crowd is forming of men, women, and even some children. The ones who circle the cargo are obviously Patriots. Those who are Loyalists scurry away like the traitorous rats they are.

By the time all the crates are carried out, the crowd has found its voice. It is eager to send the Crown a message, and the cargo from the _Greyhound_ shall do well as the instrument of the missive. It shall now face a similar fate to the cargo from the _Dartmouth_ in Boston a year earlier.

"Burn it! Burn it! Burn it!" the crowd yells while my fellow defenders of liberty and justice cup their hands over their mouths and resume their war cries.

"What of Bowen?" Emmett asks eagerly.

I give him a crooked smile. "I shall retrieve him."

"Hurry, my cock is freezing!"

Jasper is the lone one of us remaining in the house, keeping watch over its inhabitants.

"Keep the wife locked in her bedchamber and safe from the crowd. Those people are ravenous." I grin wryly at Bowen as I cut the ropes binding him to the chair and wrench him up by his long shirt's collar.

"What will you do to me?" His voice quivers and all his previous defiance leaches out of him when I fail to reply.

The crowd outside verily salivates when I return with Bowen. It is no longer simply thirsty for the cargo's fate, but all agog for violence. They crave vengeance for the brutality enacted on our brothers and sisters in Boston and for the ongoing blockade of its port, making it nigh on impossible to provide Bostonians with even basic necessities.

The crates have been opened and the cargo piled high. Bowen appears ready to piss himself.

"I pray you, do not hurt me," he pleads. "You gave me your word!"

"What fool would take the word of a man who shall soon face the gallows?" I sneer.

Emmett hands me the lit torch. I take it in one hand, still holding Bowen by the collar with the other. All the while, he struggles to flee my grip.

"No! No!"

Jacob the Free Man rushes Bowen from behind. When he turns the jar over Bowen's head, the Loyalist screams and drops to his knees, while the thick, brown substance oozes down his face and frame. A dozen of our men follow suit and deposit the feathers on him.

"What is it? What have you done? Stop it, I beg you! Stop!"

"Come, sir, quit your girlish protests," Emmett says in disdain. "'Tis merely tar and feathers, and they do not hurt! Observe how we also have some on our heads – well, on our headscarves. We would not be fools enough to tar feathers to our heads."

The crowd roars its approval.

"Captain Daniel Bowen," I announce at a volume to hush the crowd, "you shall now be placed in the square's pillory for all to witness your feathered glory. Should you ever again consider betraying your countrymen and breaking the embargo against those who seek to oppress us, I ask you to remember this night. I ask you to recall the sight and sound of Patriots standing together as one. And I want you to behold your treasonous cargo's fate."

As soon as I put the torch to the cargo, the entire thing goes up in flames, for it has been kept wonderfully dry and fresh. The crowd whoops and hollers. My fellow _Indians_ howl at the moon.

"Savages!" Bowen cries, spitting feathers out of his mouth. "How dare you treat me –nay, how dare you treat the Crown's property in this manner?"

The flames dance before my eyes, warming me inside and out. Emmett and the rest of his bare-chested followers revel in the heat, rejoicing, for their cocks shall live to see another day. The cargo's scent wafts in the air. No, I cannot deny I miss its taste upon my tongue, but I shall die a thousand hypocrite's deaths before I succumb to the craving.

"A mob of smugglers and traitors exploiting an excuse to rid yourselves of legal cargo, 'tis all you are!"

I grin crookedly. "Smugglers we may be, sir, but traitors we are not. We are loyal to our land and our birthplace, which is far more than I may say for you."

"You are cowards! Show your faces if you are such brave _Patriots_."

"Sir, we are Patriots, not imbeciles," Emmett chuckles as he performs a war dance around the bonfire.

The crowd laughs while the fire burns. Embers and feathers float in the dark sky before joining the snow. As the ashes and laughter die down, I cast my gaze around those gathered. In spite of the laughter, the flames of the bonfire illuminate the sadness etched 'cross some faces.

Emmett leans in, his speech hushed and much more subdued. "Edward, New Jersey's _Sons of Liberty_ shall no longer be unknown to the redcoats."

I nod slowly, my gaze remaining on the bonfire. "Just as our brothers in Boston accepted retaliation in exchange for defending their rights as men, so shall we." I glance at Emmett out of the corner of my eye. "Shall we not?"

"Aye," Emmett replies. "Nevertheless, I put forth the reminder lest it is forgotten in the moment's merriment."

"A merry moment indeed," I smirk. "We shall make a hearty attempt to control our glee as we dance upon the ashes of treason."

After several moments of silence, one of the women in the crowd speaks, her wistful gaze on the evening's bonfire.

"'Tis a shame, nonetheless, that we must burn it, for a cold evening it is, and under other circumstances, a good 'ole cup 'a English tea would 'a done a body well."

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **The next post will likely be Monday, then probably Wednesday, at which point I'll have a clearer picture of what the regular posting schedule will be. Thanks!**


	2. Chapter 2 - The Incident at the Assembly

**A/N: Happy Monday!**

 **First, thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts. It was great to hear from you guys again!**

 **Second, I probably should've done this at the beginning of the last chapter, but I realized it might be a good idea to provide a quick and** _ **very basic**_ **background to the historic events leading up to the opening of the story, especially as they'll pertain to E &B in the colony of New Jersey (NJ). Btw, for those wondering why the story is set in NJ, it's been my home state for the past 18 years, and it's rich in Revolutionary War history (though, I'm proudly a New Yorker by birth). **

**SO, IF YOU'RE INTERESTED IN A BIT OF BACKGROUND, READ THE REST OF THIS A/N.**

 **IF YOU'RE NOT INTERESTED IN BACKGROUND AND YOU JUST WANT TO GET ON WITH THE STORY, SKIP THIS ENTIRE A/N!**

 **Many, if not most people don't realize what a HUGE part NJ played in the American Revolution. Even during colonial times,** **NJ's population was culturally diverse. However, the colonial troubles, which began further north, forced the population to take sides. Bitter divisions developed within communities. Loyalist (aka Tory) Neighbor turned against Patriot (aka Whig) neighbor and allegiances were quickly formed.** **Positioned between the new nation's original capital, Philadelphia, and the British stronghold of New York, NJ was the scene of major events and battles, which helped determine the course of the war.**

 *****NOW, A REALLY QUICK AND BASIC SUMMARY/BACKGROUND OF EVENTS LEADING UP TO THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION AND THE OPENING OF OUR STORY*****

 **In 1658, the English Colonists and Native Americans fought what's sometimes called** _ **The First Indian War**_ **. The major significance of this war as it relates to this story is that the colonists fought it without significant English government support, thereby giving the colonists a group identity separate and distinct from those living in Britain. Many of the colonists no longer saw themselves as British subjects; rather, they saw themselves as Americans.**

 **Almost one hundred years later, in the 1750s, the British American and the French American Colonies got into disputes regarding frontier borders. This escalated into** _ **The French and Indian War**_ **– as it became known in the U.S., named after those who fought against the British Colonies. France lost this war and had to cede much of its American holdings to Britain, which magnified already bitter feelings between the British and the French.**

 **The war left GB with a huge debt, which, in 1765, they tried to pass onto the colonies in the form of the** _ **Stamp Act**_ **. This act taxed all official documents such as newspapers, almanacs, and pamphlets. The taxes themselves weren't the main grievance of the colonies; rather, it was the fact that the colonies had no representation in Parliament, and therefore no say on any of the legislation GB passed in relation to the colonies.**

 **In addition, the French and Indian War left GB with a surplus of well-connected British soldiers, which Parliament decided to keep active and paid. However, they didn't want to keep them active and paid in GB, so they sent them to America, for the colonies to quarter and pay. Again, the colonies had no say in this.**

 **The** _ **Sons of Liberty**_ **were formed in 1765 to protect colonial rights through boycotts, demonstrations, and threats of violence. In July of that year, the Stamp Act was repealed, thanks in large part to Benjamin Franklin, a Son of Liberty, who testified for repeal in front of Parliament. He stated that Colonials had already given enough in terms of funds, manpower, and blood in defense of the empire. Despite the repeal, Parliament maintained they were the supreme lawmaking authority throughout all British possessions, and therefore, entitled to pass any and all taxes and legislation without colonial input.**

 **In 1767, GB passed the** _ **Townshend Act**_ **, which taxed a wider variety of goods, including paper, glass, and tea, and established a Board of Customs in Boston to regulate trade. Again, the colonists protested. Smuggling became the practice in order to evade customs duties. In 1768, the Colony of Massachusetts issued a letter urging the other colonies to coordinate resistance. Riots broke out in Boston, and in response, the British deployed troops to the city.**

 **In February 1770, 11-year-old Christopher Seider was shot and killed amongst a crowd rioting in front of the house of a customs agent. Outraged over this incident, in March, a large crowd gathered around a group of British soldiers in Boston. The crowd began throwing rocks, snow, and debris at the soldiers. When one of the soldiers was hit, the rest opened fire into the crowd. Three colonists died at the scene, and two died afterward. This later became known as the** _ **Boston Massacre**_ **.**

 **Parliament tried to appease the colonial unrest by withdrawing all colonial taxes except the tax on tea, kept basically as a reminder that Parliament had a right to tax the colonies at will. The remaining tea tax led to widespread tea smuggling into the colonies to avoid paying taxes on English tea.**

 **In 1773, Parliament passed another Act, this one lowering the price on English Tea imported by the British East India Company, in order to undersell the smuggled tea. In December of that year, a group of men, led by Samuel Adams (another Son of Liberty) and dressed as Native Americans, boarded the British East India Company ships in Boston Harbor and dumped** **10,000 worth of tea (about** **700,000 worth in today's money) into the harbor. This became known as** _ **The Boston Tea Party**_ **.**

 **Infuriated, Parliament passed what became known as the** _ **Intolerable Acts**_ **. The first act restricted town meetings in Massachusetts. The second act ordered that all British soldiers accused of crimes in the colonies were to be tried in England. The third act closed the port of Boston until the British were compensated for the dumped tea. The fourth act allowed for the quartering of British troops in the homes of colonial citizens without requiring citizens' permission.**

 **In response, Massachusetts formed an alternative government, which began training militia outside of British-occupied Boston. In September 1774, the colonies called** _ **The First Continental Congress**_ **into order, with representatives from each of the thirteen colonies. The Congress called for an immediate boycott of ALL British goods.**

 **And this is where our story began in Chapter 1, in December 1774. A young group of New Jersey Patriots and Sons of Liberty find out that British Tea has been diverted from landing in Virginia, where the ship's owners knew they'd be boarded and their tea confiscated. Instead, they went on to a small New Jersey port, believing their cargo safer and undetected. It's a true story, considered NJ's version of The Boston Tea Party, but not widely known. And as we saw in Chapter 1, things didn't work out too well for Captain Bowen, did they? ;)**

 **Now, with this bit of background, let's move on. :)**

* * *

 **February 15, 1775 - Freehold, Monmouth County, New Jersey**

 **The Incident at the Assembly**

"Edward, you are late."

Pulling out my pocket watch, I make a grand exhibition of studying it intently before returning the watch to my waistcoat.

"James, your sharp observation skills shall serve you well in your new endeavors. You are correct. I am indeed late."

James pulls on the green coat assigned him as an ensign in the newly-formed _Royal Americans for Peace_ regiment – a twistedly-named British military unit if ever I encountered one.

"What was the delay? Was your father's smuggled shipment not up to par?"

My retort expels itself in a low yet dispassionate tone. "Just so we understand one another, should you be overheard, not only would my father and I spend time in the stocks, but for partaking, the new coat you sport would be ripped off your back faster than you could say, 'Exactly how far down shall I bend for you, my King?'"

James busies himself with adjusting his cuffs. "Edward, I overlook your indiscretions due to our longstanding friendship." Leaning in, he speaks all the lower. "But do not insult my manhood again."

"How can I insult that which you do not possess?"

For one long moment, we glare at one another. Then, we break into fits of laughter, clapping one another's shoulder hard. I inwardly smirk when he is the one thrown off-balance.

"After this ridiculous assembly, let us return to my father's tavern and sample that shipment to which you allude. I might even withhold my laughter as you prance around in your ridiculous, green coat."

He exhales heavily. Insults to his manhood do not overly vex him, but I have used the word "ridiculous" twice when referring to both the assembly and his coat. The gathering is meant to formally introduce his green-coated regiment to the town folk. Ridicule is not what he expects this eve. I must tamp down my urge to provide it.

For years now, I have perfected the art of feigned apathy to keep suspicion away from my loyalty and involvement in _The Cause_. 'Tis an act which is becoming increasingly difficult as the British grip on our colonies tightens.

James straightens his shoulders. "If the evening ends as I would wish, this uniform you mock shall have me occupied with other forms of entertainment while you drink yourself into a smuggled-ale stupor."

To appease him, I allow the jab. We proceed toward what was previously home to the Smythe family. With the Quartering Act now in full effect throughout the colonies, the Smythes have been "temporarily" relocated to a smaller house a few miles away, so the Captain of the newly-formed _Royal Americans for Peace_ Regiment may call the grandiose home his.

"You refer to the young ladies who have arrived from New York to attend the event?" I inquire.

"Aye," James grins. "They are friends of Captain Swan's daughter. I hear tell she misses them grievously since moving here from New York."

My hands remain knit tightly behind my back.

"The Captain's daughter is homesick, you say? This explains why no one has laid eyes on her since her arrival a fortnight ago. Her melancholy keeps her within doors, but perhaps the remedy lies in acclimating to her new environment."

I fear I do a poor job of masking my dislike for the Captain's unknown daughter - spoilt, demanding, and over-indulged creature she must be. 'Tis unfortunate, if I cannot disguise my disdain, for it is my duty to learn as much of the Captain as possible.

James side-eyes me. "The Captain's daughter is a gently bred young woman, born in New York to an Englishman and to the daughter of an Englishman. She is a Tory through and through."

"And she must feel horribly lost outside of Tory New York. Yet, you and I manage to set aside our differences for the sake of friendship."

"Ah, but you and I pursue other interests beyond the troubles of our colonies."

With considerable effort, my gaze remains front and center.

"I also hear tell she is quite reserved and sparsely vocal," he adds.

"She sounds lovelier by the moment."

He turns his head sharply. When I meet his gaze, again, we chuckle.

"She does sound lovely."

" _You_ sound as if you are already half in love," I jest.

"I very well may be."

This causes me to stop short. "So, when you hint you intend to woo one of the young ladies in attendance this evening, you mean you already have one in mind."

"Miss Swan is a reputed beauty," he grins, "eighteen years of age, docile, ripe for marriage…and for the marriage bed."

I raise an eyebrow. "For what more can you ask?"

"For what more _can_ I ask?"

We resume our walk. "Tell me, does this docile and ripe beauty have a say in this love affair or is your determination in the matter sufficient to call it settled?"

He chuckles heartily. "As I said, she is of marrying age. For what more can _she_ possibly ask?"

"I see your point," I remark. "Nonetheless, if you seek marriage to a _disaffected_ Tory, we have those here in Freehold."

He does not immediately reply. "She is the only daughter of the man who is now my Captain, and he has indicated he would be amenable if his daughter and I should suit."

"Ah, now I see further. Tying the Loyalist Captain's daughter to the son of the County's Loyalist magistrate would be a Tory match made in heaven. Who knows? Perhaps our illustrious Governor, William Franklin, may attend the wedding – nay, officiate it! I hear tell he foregoes no opportunity to thumb his nose at his father, Mr. Ben Franklin."

Again, he stops and holds my gaze. "You are mocking me once again, but let us be honest, Edward."

"By all means, James, let us."

"You and I have been friends since we were barely in breeches, tied by the friendships of our fathers. Yet, in these past few years, our differences have grown greater than our similarities."

"'Tis true," I acknowledge with a slight nod.

"Now that I have joined the regiment, the rest of our friends no longer consort with me, and I honestly care very little."

"I shall not speak on their behalf, James, yet these affiliations of ours have never been a secret. You have not been shut out from society nor from any maiden's apple dumpling shop due to your affiliations."

He looks away from me and into the darkness. "Every day, there is more indication these affiliations might soon come to a head. 'Tis why I joined the regiment."

I know not why I allow the following words to tumble forth. "You joined the regiment because you believe the Lobsterbacks, with their great numbers, shall be the winning side should war come, not because you actually believe in their cause. Let us not use the words _affiliation_ and _belief_ interchangeably, for interchangeable they are not. You affiliate with the Tories, yet you believe in nothing but yourself. If tomorrow, King George decided the colonies certainly do have the right to govern themselves, _you_ would quickly realize you had always been a Patriot."

He reels back, for now, he is truly offended.

"Furthermore, if the lovely Miss Swan is as docile and malleable as rumors imply, if she truly lacks her own mind, you do her a great disservice by bringing no true convictions into the union. I, therefore, hold scant hope for your marital felicity, for neither of you shall know what to do with yourself when war comes."

"Is this what you really think of me, Edward?"

I have gone too far. Yet, I keep going.

"I think you possess no true loyalties, James. I could respect you in that uniform far more if you were honestly the Tory you profess to be."

For a few moments, he stares at me in stunned silence. "You think everyone believes in the righteousness of their side as strongly as you suddenly seem to believe in yours?"

 _By God, man, desist!_ my mind implores.

"I believe you are more attracted to Miss Swan's pedigree than to any other facet she may possess."

"Why is that a problem? And what is this sudden concern with Miss Swan and what facets of hers I may or may not value?"

I drop my head and shake it from side to side, for I have no idea why I have dug myself into this shit hole.

"Let us quit this discussion," I say, attempting to contain the damage my reckless tongue has caused.

"No," he retorts heatedly. "Is this now your measure of happiness, Edward, the strength of one's beliefs? Pray tell me when this occurred."

Before I can even begin to explain the things I saw in Boston four years past, he moves in closer, with a challenge in his eyes.

"Better yet, tell me how different are our methods of obtaining happiness, Edward? Truly, how different are they? Or have you suddenly moved beyond rebellion-for-profit-in-the-form-of-smuggling, for as far as I knew, it is all _you_ believed in as of this morn?"

'Tis a good thing he stopped me from speaking, for I have given away far too much already. For nigh on four years, I have kept my true beliefs from all except my fellow brothers and sisters in _The Cause_.

Stupidly enough, as James and I stand there reassessing our friendship, I silently blame the faceless and unknown Miss Swan for this. I know not why I felt the sudden need to champion her, dimwitted as she must be if she was born and bred in this land yet _affiliates_ with the English.

James seems to feel much of what I am feeling. "Edward, sometimes I suspect our friendship hangs by the thread of our differences, that lately, we are friends more to keep an eye on one another."

As I have no response I can and should verbalize, this time, I manage to rein in my wayward tongue.

OOOOOOOOOO

As we enter the assembly, I seethe in a dark silence, which is at complete odds with the brilliance of the lit chandeliers. The marble floors are waxed until they reflect the attendees' happy smiles. The finest silver and china have been laid out.

English tea is being served.

James's eyes immediately locate his prize. "Look, there is Captain Swan, and that must be Miss Swan by his side. Shall you accompany me for introductions, or is this beyond your new loyalties as well?"

He is testing me.

The gentleman to whom he refers appears to be in his mid-forties, is of average height, dark-haired, and possesses a thick, dark mustache which curls on each end. The giggling, pretty-ish young girl at his side possesses equally brown curls and a generous bosom. There is not much more to say about her.

Turning to James with a false grin, I nod toward the refreshments table.

"You should meet your future bride one on one. I shall seek some punch and apply for introductions shortly."

He nods. "I suppose it does make sense I seek an introduction to her first." Then, he leans in as he did outdoors. "But Edward, do seek an introduction. Whether you like it or not, Captain Swan is now the ranking officer in Monmouth County. Better to be on the gentleman's good side…than not."

OOOOOOOOOO

As I stand by the refreshment table, my stomach churns for the part I must play. My patriot blood boils, for I must pretend to respect these people and act as if my Whig loyalties are as muddied as James's Tory ones.

My memory casts back to the pamphlet disseminated four years earlier, from which I first learned of eleven-year-old Christopher Seider. He was killed by a customs agent in Boston for protesting colonial grievances – acts and taxes placed on us without representation in Parliament. Back then, I was only a seventeen-year-old lad myself, and it was Father who insisted we travel to Boston to pay our respects.

'Twas there we met Mr. Samuel Adams.

We remained in Boston for some weeks, more and more impressed with Mr. Adam's dedication to _The Cause_. Then, less than two weeks after young Mr. Seider's murder, there was the incident -no, the _massacre_ on King Street.

My ire grows as the memories bombard me. The crowd on King Street had not been completely innocent, no – throwing rocks, jibes, and such – but those British soldiers should have never been there to begin!

Then, as if to add insult to such massive injuries, the customs agent who killed Christopher Seider was pardoned by an English court. Moreover, of the eight soldiers involved in the Boston massacre, six were acquitted, and the two charged with manslaughter were merely sentenced to branding!

By the time we left Boston, Father and I were decided on our course.

Now, every passing day, I abhor the Loyalists more. They are men and women who cannot think for themselves, and who look to a King thousands of miles away for leadership. They raise their children with the same mindless reverence and hold these assemblies to make the rest of us forget what they are truly attempting, what they-

"Sir, you have the look of someone sucking on a very large, very bitter lemon."

Startled, I blink away from my thoughts and turn toward the voice.

"Perhaps your cravat is too tight?" she continues, tilting her head so that chestnut-toned, silk curls bounce on either side of her face. "'Tis a handsome knot, to be sure, but if it gives you such pain, it may not be worth the torment."

Auburn eyes lock me within their depths.

I confess I am struck mute. Her dress and accent mark her as one of the New York Tories, yet despite that travesty, she is an undeniable beauty. She wears a pale pink gown that offsets her hair and eyes like dark jewels. The intricately embroidered pattern on her bodice highlights her slim waist, as does the wide petticoat. Her sleeves sport English lace a' plenty.

"Sir, I must insist you loosen that knot if it prevents you from uttering even the most basic pleasantries." With a raised brow, she turns her head in the direction in which my glare was focused. "Or perhaps 'tis something in your line of vision which causes you such bitter looks. Pray tell me what offends you of the Captain and the young woman?"

Recovering my wits, I reply, "I am not at all offended by the Captain nor by the woman at his side."

"Then, perhaps it is the young officer with them who distresses you? He is handsome indeed, with his flaxen hair so neatly tied, yet he has the air of a dandy. Are you envious of his green coat?" She turns her dark gaze back to me. "If so, I assure you, you cut a much more striking figure with your untamed copper hair and your dark coat."

"You are being quite forward, madam."

"Am I?" She frowns. "Tell me, is your being strikingly handsome not a known fact in these savage parts? For, if it is known, then I do not believe there is anything forward in my simple acknowledgment. However, if it is not known, then I see your point, and you have my full apologies for enlightening you so grievously."

'Tis my turn to frown, for I have no idea what to make of her.

She chuckles, and when she does, my eyes momentarily stray to her jouncing bosom. To be sure, 'tis not as generous as the Captain's daughter's bosom, yet the sublime swells above the neckline of her dress hint at their exquisitely-round shape.

"Did you say _I_ am forward, sir?"

My eyes swiftly return to hers, but apparently, not swiftly enough. She smirks knowingly.

"Pray, excuse _my_ momentary impertinence," she mocks sardonically. "Nevertheless, you have not answered my question." When she grins, she displays a fine set of teeth.

"No, I am not envious of his green coat," I manage to utter.

"What can it be then?" she murmurs.

For what feels like an eternity, the candlelight around us dances in her dark eyes. The entire room feels as if it has been robbed of air as I await her assessment.

Finally, she sighs. "I suppose I shall have to discover your secret at some other time."

"I have no secrets," I hiss, perhaps a bit too curtly.

"Truly? None at all?" She taps her forefinger against her full, red lips. "Curiously, I have found those who have the most secrets are usually the ones who lay claim to none."

"Who in God's-"

"Unfortunately, they approach, sir, and now my breath of air is over."

I barely have time to draw in my own breath and recover from her onslaught before James, the Captain, and his dimwitted daughter are upon us.

"Ah, Isabella," the Captain says. "You have finished your dance."

"As you see, sir." The Tory beauty takes his proffered arm. "I believe I have fulfilled all my required duties as hostess. May I be allowed to spend the rest of the evening at my leisure?" On the last word, her dark eyes flash my way.

The Captain chuckles. "I know of at least one gentleman here who is anxious for an introduction, and I must insist you allow him a dance before your leisure." He glances at James. "Isabella, allow me to introduce to you one of our new ensigns, Mr. James Pitman. His father is the Royal Magistrate of the County we now call home. Ensign Pitman, _this_ is my daughter, Isabella Swan."

With the pronouncement, my blood pools to my feet; although, it should not. Regardless of whose daughter she may or may not be, Tory she is.

Meanwhile, Isabella Swan performs a curtsey for James, who bows to her, tricorn in hand.

"Madam, your humble servant. I am very glad to meet you."

"Sir, I am yours. And I am glad to meet you as well."

The teasing expression is wiped from her features. As we five perform the ridiculously complex introductions common within the genteel class, with curtsies and bows in ranking order, her pleasantries are delivered in a dull, monotone fashion.

I find myself wondering if I simply imagined our exchange.

As it is, the young woman beside Captain Swan is _not_ his daughter; rather, she is Miss Jessica Van Statten, one of Isabella's friends from New York.

"It appears there was some confusion, Miss Swan," James says, grinning like a fool. "My friend and I believed your friend, Miss Van Statten, to be you."

"I imagine it was an honest error," she replies sedately.

"'Twas," James chuckles. "You see, Miss Van Statten stood with your father. We had never met you, and Miss Van Statten is also dark-haired, and-"

"And so, the error is easily explained," Isabella concludes with a small smile. "Nevertheless, your observation skills shall serve you well, sir."

I almost laugh aloud, for 'tis quite the same sentiment I shared with James earlier. Although she is so composed as she shares it, I cannot tell if there is actual satire in her delivery or simply my imagination at work again.

"I thank you, Madam," he replies. "I should hope so."

She merely nods, truly appearing the limitedly vocal creature of rumors.

"Mr. Cullen," the Captain says, "in what line of trade is your father?"

"We own the tavern, sir," I reply, "and we have a farm in the area."

"I imagine these days the tavern has little to serve in the way of spirits." He crooks an eyebrow.

"With the King's embargo, you imagine correctly," I lie.

"Are they prosperous situations?" he further enquires intrusively, but _they_ see this as their right.

"'They are decent for two bachelor men, sir."

"No women?"

"My mother died of the throat distemper when I was a lad, and I have no wife."

"From where did your mother hail?"

"From here in New Jersey, born to Dutchmen."

"How long have both the farm and the tavern been in your family?"

"I shall be their third owner, sir."

He nods.

The inquisition is meant to discover my true loyalties, for my replies mark me as either Loyalist or Patriot – though not necessarily to what degree. He has already discerned that Whig I am by birth.

"You seem a strong, young man, Mr. Cullen. Tell me, why did _you_ not join our regiment?"

And that is the question whose reply shall serve to sway him, one way or the other.

In the meanwhile, Isabella, her friend Jessica, and my _friend_ , James, stand around silently and impassively – which clearly marks the three for what they are: _disaffected_ Tories, those who care not one way or the other.

"Twas my dead mother's final request that I do not take up arms. Her father and brothers fought and died in the French and Indian Conflict."

In fact, Mother decreed nothing on her deathbed beyond wishes for my health and happiness.

"Ah, I see. Well, then." Satisfied, Captain Swan smiles and returns his attention to his daughter. "Isabella, do indulge me and share a dance with Ensign Pitman."

Isabella offers her father an aloof nod of acquiescence. "Of course, Father."

"And while they dance, perhaps you might escort Miss Van Statten, Mr. Cullen?"

"I would be honored," I say, grinning at the buxom young lady, who giggles excitedly.

"Wonderful," the Captain exclaims. "There is no better way to pass an evening than through dancing, do you not agree?"

I merely smile, for tarring and feathering a Tory spring to mind, yet I do not believe 'tis the sort of reply he seeks.

OOOOOOOOOO

Miss Jessica Van Statten is quite the verbose creature. Unfortunately, most of what she says has neither rhyme nor reason.

Isabella and James are further down the dance line, so we do not meet throughout the set. Yet, I cannot stop myself from stealing periodic glances in their direction. James appears to be the verbal one in that pairing.

Truly, _did_ I imagine the entire scene with her?

"…sort of place."

"Pardon me?" My private musings have caused me to miss something of Miss Van Statten's stimulating conversation.

She giggles and blinks prettily. "I was observing how different this county is from Kings County, from where I hail; though, they are merely fifty miles apart."

"How do you find them different, madam?"

"Oh, the people here are just so untamed…so rustic!" She giggles. "Your manners are so wonderfully primitive, and your way of dress so simple. I feel as if I am in a wood full of forest creatures!"

"I see," I nod slowly. "I take it then you in Kings County do not eat your young?"

The dance moves us apart as I watch Miss Van Statten's eyes widen into horrified circles. When the dance once more brings us together, I whisper in her ear.

"To be sure, we only do so when the temperatures dip so low as to prevent us from hunting boar or gathering berries."

It takes her two full turns of the set before she giggles loudly once again.

"You tease me, sir!"

"I do," I grin.

OOOOOOOOOO

After the dance, I escort Miss Van Statten to the refreshment table, where James and Isabella already are. We partake in punch and more dull conversation.

Yes. Yes, I _must_ have imagined it all.

'Tis a good thing, for it is time to return my focus where it belongs: to _The Cause_ and to finding out as much as I can about Captain Swan and his plans for this new Regiment.

"Madam," I say to the beautiful Tory, "may I have the next dance?"

She eyes me blandly. "You may."

Of course, now James must ask Jessica to dance, and so we conveniently exchange partners.

As I lead Miss Swan onto the dance floor, I have little hopes beyond a set with a beautiful, treasonous woman and perhaps some useful information. When the flutes begin, Isabella curtsies, and I bow. We take the first few steps silently, eyes locked on one another. There is a light in her eyes. At first, I believe 'tis a reflection of the candles, but no. The light in her eyes seems to emanate from _within_. 'Tis very peculiar and…

And for the love of all, I am not here to examine the light in a Tory woman's eyes!

I shake my head imperceptibly to push out such nonsense, preparing to carefully and impassively question her regarding her father's plans. Then, as part of the dance, our palms meet mid-air.

About twenty years ago, Mr. Benjamin Franklin – now an illustrious member of our _Sons of Liberty_ brotherhood – conducted an experiment in which he flew a kite with a key attached to its string during a storm. A charge of light from the sky struck this key. Later, Mr. Franklin penned his results, which in summary were that when he touched the key, his hand fairly shook and burned.

This is an accurate description of what touching the beautiful Tory's palm does to me.

My breath hitches. From the look of her chest, so does Isabella's. Nevertheless, we follow the steps of the dance as they move us apart. When she returns to me, a half smile plays across her impish mouth.

"That was…peculiar."

"I know not of what you speak, madam."

She chuckles softly – _not_ giggles. "Come, sir. Do not tell me you did not feel that. The Bitter Lemon Look made its return; though, perhaps not quite as bitter?"

I remain silent. We perform a couple of turns in this silence, but she will not be quiet long enough to allow me to gather my wits.

"You _are_ offended, sir."

"Can you not dance quietly and allow me to-"

"Allow you to what, sir?"

"You were mute enough with James," I say. "I only saw you speak when spoken to."

Again, she gives me that soft chuckle which makes her perfect bosom swell. "Ah, you are a true gentleman."

Now I feel like a wretch.

"If I have offended you, I apologize."

"If?" Again, that mischievous, half-smile plays across her mouth. "Mr. Cullen, for someone at a dance assembly, you do appear dreadfully miserable."

"Again, I apologize. 'Tis simply…" – I must guide this disastrous conversation back toward usefulness – "I am somewhat concerned about your father's purpose here. We in New Jersey lead a quiet, peaceful life, far from the troubles further north," I lie. "I would simply like to know that it is not your father's intention to change that in any manner."

For a few seconds, she holds my gaze, even as our steps guide us away from one another.

"My father's purpose here, Mr. Cullen," she begins upon her return, "is to keep the peace in light of those treasonous events occurring in Massachusetts Colony. If New Jersey Colony plans no treason, it has nothing with which to concern itself."

"Treason you call what occurs in Massachusetts?" I ask, forcing impassivity into my tone.

"What would you call it?" she smiles.

"I might call it steps to solving a problem."

"Truly?" She chuckles. "'Twas not sufficient for them to dump precious tea in the bay? Now, they boycott all British imports. When penalized for their infractions, they establish a seditious government outside of Boston. They collect taxes illegally. They buy supplies illegally. They raise militias illegally."

"They raise militias as does your father," I point out.

"Under the royal command of the _King_ ," she counters, "and in light of the fact that New Jersey Colony shows signs of rising up with some of her sister colonies."

I nod slowly, swallowing bile and biting back all the bitter truths I want to hurl at this beautiful yet full Tory woman.

"So, he establishes a regiment _not_ to keep the peace, but to ensure our colony does not attempt to defend itself?"

"Defend itself from _what_ , sir?"

I do not answer her, for she has told me enough - for now. Nevertheless, I cannot resist one last observation.

"I have heard rumors, Miss Swan, that you are a docile creature with little care for the troubles affecting our colonies. I do not know that the characterization suits you."

She arches a perfect eyebrow. "And I, sir, watched you weave a tale of your life which characterized you as something similar. Yet that Bitter Lemon Look, which will not leave your countenance, might tell a different tale."

This woman is dangerous. I know not how, but she sees me all too well.

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **Another update on Friday. See you then.**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**

 ***You might enjoy listening to** _ **Muse's**_ **"Uprising" while reading this story.* ;)**


	3. Chapter 3 - The Incident at the Tavern

**A/N: Good morning, and Happy Hump Day! Who's up for a quick, little, middle-of-the-week pick-me-up?**

 **The original version of this for the AoE contest was betaed by Michelle Renker Rhodes, but I've added to it a bit.**

 **Some characters belong to S. Meyer, some belong to me, and some belong to history. ;)**

 **Chapter 3 - The Incident at the Tavern**

* * *

 **April 17, 1775 – Freehold, Monmouth County, New Jersey**

Over the next few weeks, Captain Swan swells his ranks with those treacherous Loyalists among us, as well as with those _disaffected_ Tories much like James. Meanwhile, Massachusetts Colony continues its state of gloriously open rebellion. We hear from our fellow brothers that they are arming. Unfortunately, the British hear this as well; although, they know not _where_ the rebel arms are stored. And so, we must be excessively cautious, for a misstep at this stage, when we are so close to rising up, can prove disastrous to the entire Cause.

Here in New Jersey Colony, we are preparing as well. All 'cross Monmouth County, the militias previously instituted both for defense from the Indians and for duty in the French and Indian Conflict are now being rearmed. This time, 'tis for our natural-born rights as men which we must make a stand.

So, while Captain Swan grows his regiment, Emmett, Jasper, Jacob the Free Man, and I secretly rally and prepare our fellow Patriots.

James spends this time between running Captain Swan's errands and courting the _lovely_ Miss Swan. With the warming weather, he and Isabella walk arm in arm up and down the square, she in her elegant finery, and he in his disgusting green coat. Whenever we happen to meet, she curtsies, I bow, and nothing more.

Sometimes, I espy them from the tavern windows, where within, we spend our time on much worthier endeavors than they. At times, such as now, I spot them as I stand guard outside the tavern. As usual, he does the talking for the two. _She_ merely nods. The lovely and tame Miss Isabella Swan.

I abhor her.

"Then, why do you stare at her so much?"

I turn and find Emmett and Jasper both leaning a shoulder against the tavern doors and smirking at me.

"I had not realized I spoke aloud, nor did I hear you both step out."

"'Tis not surprising," Jasper says, pushing himself off the door. "You have not heard or seen much for the past half hour or so, ever since Miss Swan appeared in the square, I would venture."

"That is a falsehood," I object with perhaps more vehemence than I should. "I have been carefully guarding the tavern, wherein you both should be with my father and Jacob, instructing our new recruits."

"They are mostly finished, and 'tis a good thing. For, if Captain Swan and his regiment had stormed the tavern while Miss Swan frolics about in her handsome frocks, I do not believe you would have noticed until we were all hanging by our necks."

I scowl at Emmett. Nonetheless, he and Jasper share a hearty chuckle at my expense.

"You know I jest, Edward." Emmett steps toward me, quirking a brow. "But she _does_ distract you."

Again, my eyes stray, as if magnetized by her mere proximity in the square, summoned by her presence, no matter how unwillingly. From underneath her mauve cape, I spot a pale lavender hem. Her matching, wide-brimmed hat is tilted to one side, shielding her face from my view. Nevertheless, she stands out like a violet in a field of dry earth interspersed with angry red and traitorous green weeds. I wonder if she knows how her colors clash with those of her escort.

I myself wear navy and white today.

"She is an enigma. At the assembly, before her father and James, she was reticent – even dull. Yet, when alone in conversation with me, she was as bold as I have ever witnessed a woman." With an imperceptible shake of the head, I tear my eyes away from the maddening woman. "She is a paradox and nothing more."

"Paradox or not, she is a Tory, and more than that, she is Captain Swan's daughter," Jasper says.

"Thank you, but I need not the reminder."

Emmett clears his throat. "Speaking of reminders, Katrina has asked me to remind you that you are invited to supper with her and Father tomorrow evening," Emmett says.

Ah, the sweet Katrina McCarty, Emmett's nineteen-year-old sister. I have known her since she was a plump babe with golden curls. Now, she is a tall, well-shaped, and extremely fair young woman. In James' words, she is ripe for marriage and the marriage bed. 'Tis an institution and a bed to which she has aspired to lead me for these past few years. Perhaps, if not for the troubles of our colonies, she may have even succeeded. Yet, with all that has occurred since I became a man of age, marriage has been the last thing on my mind. A wife would only complicate the life I must lead, and I respect Katrina and her family too much to bed her without wedding her.

"Tell Kat I shall be honored to dine with her and your father," I reply.

Emmett nods. "I shall, but now, our friend James and his lovely partner approach."

Emmett and Jasper stand casually before the tavern's wide window, and I spin around slowly, grinning as James and Isabella reach us.

"How goes it, James?"

"Edward," he replies with a nod, his gaze straying to Emmett and Jasper behind me. "Emmett, Jasper."

As they offer one another cool greetings, I force my features to remain impassive and shift my gaze to Miss Swan. She pushes back her mauve cape, revealing the rest of her lavender dress and the perfectly-round swells above it. As we three remove our tricorns and bow to her, she performs a faultless and succinct curtsy.

"Good afternoon, Miss Swan."

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," she replies sedately, but her provocatively dark eyes, all the darker for the pale colors she wears, are on me.

"Isabella and I were taking fresh air on this prodigious, warm afternoon. It has been a long winter."

"Indeed, it has," I agree, obliging my eyes to break contact with Miss Swan's. "For that reason, you find us loitering in the square ourselves."

"I have informed Isabella that your father's tavern serves the best ale and the freshest fish to be found in the Navesink River."

"Aye, fish we have," I say evenly, "but as you well know, James, ale we do not."

James chuckles. "Come, Edward. Do not concern yourself with Isabella's knowledge of your rebellious activities. At the moment, petty smugglers are of trifling importance."

James and I, for many reasons, have not spent much time in company since the assembly a few weeks back. 'Tis obvious he has neither forgotten or forgiven the words I spoke to him that eve.

It is almost all I can do to suppress the urge to shove my fist into his face, especially as I sense Isabella's dark gaze burning through me.

"We do not serve ale, James."

Again, he chuckles, but there is no longer amusement in it. "You are making me look a liar in front of Miss Swan."

"Then perhaps you should not lie."

"You arrogant son-of-a-"

As I take a step forward – for sense has abandoned me – Emmett places a massive hand on my shoulder.

More importantly, Isabella opens her mouth and speaks.

"James, I am neither hungry nor thirsty." Smiling, she places a hand on James' forearm. Eyes wide and apparently stunned, his gaze casts downward to where she touches him. "The weather is lovely, is it not? I would much rather continue our walk."

Now, James stares at the movement of her mouth. "Of…of course, Isabella. Let us continue our walk."

Nevertheless, he pins me with one final glare before turning, without taking his leave.

Isabella, however, curtsies once more, her eyes on the ground.

"By your leave, sirs."

"Your servants, madam," I murmur in reply.

As James leads her away, her eyes find mine for one long second before she turns.

OOOOOOOOOO

'Tis Jasper who brings the news on the following eve as the rest of us are gathered in the tavern. For weeks, we have known that the British will likely march on Concord, where the Massachusetts Provincial Congress has defiantly established itself. A massive quantity of provisions and war-time stores are also lodged in Concord; although, the British do not know where. As the time for our uprising approaches, we are all in a state of tense readiness.

"I bring news from Massachusetts!" he exclaims as he rushes in, breathless, apparently having ridden hard.

"Tell us," I demand, "but have a drink first, Jasper."

As he drops into a chair, one of the men hands me a pint, which I shove into Jasper's hand. Lifting it to his mouth, he pushes the pint back and empties it in one long swallow, then slams the empty pint on the table when he is done mere seconds later. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he proceeds to tell us of the latest events.

"Margaret Gage informed Joseph Warren that her husband gave orders for an expedition. They found out of the stockpiled weapons in Concord."

Loud moans and gasps of fury fill the tavern.

"Damn the redcoats to hell!" Emmett shouts.

"With the prior warning, the weapons have been removed," Jasper continues, to a collective breath of relief, "but the red-coated expedition has indeed departed."

A heavy silence follows.

"Thank God in heaven for Mrs. Gage, regardless of her reasons," my father says.

Mrs. Gage, wife of Thomas Gage, General and Commander-in-Chief of the British military forces occupying Massachusetts, is in fact, New Jersey born. She is also one of our most invaluable _Daughters of Liberty_. Rumors swirl about claiming she and Doctor Joseph Warren, President of the Massachusetts Provincial Congress, are lovers.

It seems lovers will do much for one another.

Jasper hastens through the rest. "After the warning, our fellow Sons of Liberty, Paul Revere and William Dawes, broke through the blockade in Boston and rode for Lexington and Concord. Mr. Dawes raced to Concord to warn Sam Adams and John Hancock that the British planned to capture them to quell the uprising. Mr. Revere rides for Lexington as we speak. I am told he is going from house to house, warning all on the way that the British are coming! Massachusetts militias are rising up!"

"So, it begins," I murmur. Then, nostrils flaring and lungs swelling, I stand on my wooden chair and jump onto the table. "'Tis time for our uprising as well, for we stand as one!"

The tavern explodes in a frenzied fervor. More men join me on tables, pumping fists and throwing voices high into the air. We have been waiting months –nay, years for this.

As I sweep my gaze around the wood-paneled room, I am close to bursting with pride. My brothers in liberty and justice refused to accept a fate which left us governed without representation and degraded at every turn. We are free men, and now, we shall fight for our natural rights as such! I watch the men stamp their feet in exaltation. They smack the tables with open palms. They holler and swear their loyalty to our nation, for we are all-

We are all…

We are… _not_ all celebrating.

A small, thin man, whose tricorn covers his face, and whose clothing fairly hangs off of him, slinks like a snake through the incited crowd. He slithers 'round tables and creeps toward the tavern's rear doors. Out of my periphery, I spy Emmett standing on an opposite table, also watching the small man.

When our eyes meet, Emmett quirks a brow in question, to which I reply with a shrug.

We lunge as one. The small man attempts to outrun us, but we overtake him easily. With everyone's attention diverted, I grab the vagabond by the collar and yank him through the doors. Outside, in the dark of night, I shove him hard against the brick wall.

"You piece of rotten-"

When he grunts in pain, I reel back, my grip instinctively loosening. For what feels like an eternity, we remain wordlessly locked in one another's gaze.

"Get your filthy hands off of me!" she finally growls.

"By God…Isabella…what in the name of…?"

She glares at me, her dark eyes aflame.

"What in the…?" Jasper is now behind me, apparently having noticed the commotion, and he as unable to finish a thought as I.

"Edward, get her off these streets," Emmett whispers lowly and rapidly. "If the men espy her, there is no knowing what they shall do, as riled as they are."

At this, Isabella's eyes grow wide, and she begins to struggle against my hold. "Release me! Let go of me so I may return home!"

"Edward!" Emmett repeats when I fail to move a muscle. "Ride with her to my father's house – 'tis the closest. We shall meet you there."

Isabella scowls defiantly. "I shall not ride with you!"

My wits return to me. "Madam, you have absolutely no say at the moment!" I hiss through clenched teeth.

Jasper has already brought my horse, Aro, 'round. I mount him swiftly, while Emmett lifts Miss Swan and situates her in front of me, with one of her breech-covered legs on either side of Aro's wide, muscular back. Isabella releases another grunt.

"Mr. Cullen, I do _not_ straddle beasts," she seethes.

Ignoring her, I reach forward with one hand to grab the reins and simultaneously wrap the other hand around her waist, pulling her back flush against my chest. She gasps quietly, and I feel the shiver which races up her spine, but I suspect fear is not an emotion this woman possesses in significant amounts. Before we ride, I lean in close to her ear, my lips brushing the soft skin of her jaw as I speak.

"Miss Swan, if you can dress like a man, then you _will_ straddle a beast like one."

And with a quick prod of my boot into Aro's side, we ride into the darkness.

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 *****A little bit of history, for those who are interested*****

 **Paul Revere - is famous for the historic ride from Boston to Lexington to warn everyone that, "The British are coming!" as Jasper says in the story above. But, Mr. Revere was** _ **not**_ **the only Son of Liberty who completed that midnight ride.**

 **Upon learning of the British plans to march on Concord to seize the Patriots' stores of weapons, and then onto Lexington to arrest Sam Adams and John Hancock, Dr. Joseph Warren, President of the Massachusetts Provincial Congress sent BOTH Paul Revere and William Dawes on that midnight ride in case one of them was captured. In fact, Mr. Dawes, being the more experienced militiaman, took the longer and more treacherous route. And while he didn't stop at houses to warn people of the British march, he successfully completed his ride to both scenes: Lexington and Concord, warning his fellow Sons of Liberty** _ **and**_ **safeguarding the weapons.**

 **Unfortunately, Mr. Revere was more prominent in Boston's political underground than was Mr. Dawes, so that almost one hundred years later, when Henry Wadsworth Longfellow decided to pen a poem dedicated to the midnight ride which arguably saved the revolution, he'd only heard of Paul Revere. :(**

 **Margaret Gage - was the wife of General Thomas Gage, who led the British Army in Massachusetts early in the American Revolutionary War. She was born in New Brunswick, New Jersey. Although Margaret was of English nobility, she never made a secret of her divided loyalties. Some historians believe that Margaret may have been Dr. Joseph Warren's secret lover and informant, whom everyone knew was well-connected to the British High command, but no one knew who he/she was.**

 **In the days leading up to the battle of Lexington and Concord (the first battle of the Revolutionary War), the Sons of Liberty could see that the British troops in Boston were preparing for something. Gen. Gage, hoping to prevent war, planned a secret night march to capture Adams and Hancock as well as the colonial stock of weaponry, while the colonists slept.**

 **Instead, Warren, after learning of the plan, dispatched Paul Revere and William Dawes to warn everyone, so rather than a quiet night mission, the British troops found themselves fighting thousands of angry, armed colonists.**

 **General Gage later stated that he only told two people of the plan: his second-in-command, and one other person. What's more, prior to this, General Gage was devoted to his wife. After the British disaster at Lexington and Concord, Gen. Gage ordered her away and put her on a ship back to England.**

 **Okay, on Friday, I'll post the final piece of this, all of which was originally part of my entry for the AoE contest. Then, next week…I'll start posting completely new chapters. :)**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**

 **Thanks!**


	4. Chapter 4 - The Incident in the Cellar

**A/N: One more update this week, so that after tomorrow's update, we'll have completed the Age of Edward entry portion of the story.**

 **FYI, for those who read this on the AoE page, you'll have noticed I've added a bit here and there. We're way past the 12,000 word entry limit at this point, lol.**

 **The original portion of this entry was betaed by the lovely Michelle Renker Rhodes.**

 **Some characters belong to S. Meyer, some belong to me, and some belong to history.**

* * *

 **Chapter 4 – The Incident in the Cellar**

As we ride through the wooded darkness, my mind is in an uproar, for what in God's name am I to do with this infernal woman now?

In the meanwhile, _she_ rides stiffly and silently in front of me, but her fury rolls off her and seeps into my body like liquid fire. 'Tis as if Hades itself has taken up residence in the negligible space between us. The flames emanating from her are almost unnatural in their intensity – most notably where her rump meets my groin. Try as I might, I cannot keep my cock from stiffening, especially with the manner in which it pushes against her as Aro gallops speedily. I know she must feel it pressed and growing behind her, yet she squirms not, hellion that she is.

Damn this woman, for I cannot even focus on the revolution finally upon our colonies!

When we arrive at the McCarty home, I dismount my horse before he even ends his trot. Swiftly reaching for Isabella, I situate her over my shoulder, wrapping my arms around her backside to secure her.

Naturally, she objects.

"Set me down!" she whispers harshly.

"Calm yourself!" I hiss in return, only barely resisting the urge to smack her backside.

I kick my boot hard against the door, and when Katrina opens a few seconds later, I stride past her so swiftly she at first appears to miss the fact I carry a package – or at least, she misses the nature of the package.

"Edward, I thought you had forgotten about supper."

"I did," I admit bluntly, turning to face her, "but we have had slightly more important issues develop."

For a few moments, her face seems to fall, but as her gaze sharpens on the object over my shoulder, her eyes narrow and then grow.

"What are you carrying…" her breath hitches. "Is that…is that a woman dressed as a-"

"The British are marching in Massachusetts Colony," I say. "The revolution is here."

The manner in which Katrina continues to gape at Isabella makes me suspect she has little care for the revolution at the present.

"Where is your father?" I ask.

"I…" she tears her eyes away from Isabella and looks at me rather awkwardly, "I asked him to ride to the tavern to remind you of supper."

Only vaguely do I now note Katrina's overdressed appearance for a humble supper, combined with the fact that had I arrived as planned, she and I would have been quite alone.

"Where is my brother?" she questions quickly.

"He and the rest shall be here soon. Now, if you'll pardon me, I must escort this young _lady_ ," I sneer, "to your cellar."

"You will _not_ take me below stairs!" Isabella protests.

"Have I not made it clear you have no say at the moment?"

Nevertheless, the entire way down the cellar steps, Isabella yells her grievances in my ear, kicks my thighs with her borrowed man boots, and pummels her small yet unsurprisingly powerful fists against my shoulders. I know not how I continue to resist the maddening urge to give her round backside a good thwack, both to settle her and…and well, 'tis right there, mocking me.

When we finally reach the dark landing, I do set her down. She steps back instantly, and furiously yanks off her tricorn, which frees her long tresses and allows them to settle 'round her shoulders like a curtain of silk. Then, she throws the hat at me before rushing forward and shoving me hard in the chest.

"Miss Swan, there appears to be some confusion as to whom the aggrieved party is here."

"You are a Patriot rebel and a spy!"

I confess, a mixture of both awe at her nerve and fury at her nerve fight for dominance within me.

" _I_ am a spy?" I hiss, digging a finger into my chest. " _I_ am a spy?" I turn the finger toward her. " _You_ are the one who dressed as a man and snuck into my tavern!"

" _I_ am no spy!"

When I step forward so only a couple of inches of space separate us, the woman does not even flinch. Instead, she lifts her chin defiantly.

"Then what were you doing in my tavern? Did your lover send you?" I scowl. "Were you on errand for your precious ensign or was it for your traitorous, Loyalist father? Yet, you have the utter gall to stand there, dressed as a _man_ ," I repeat, yelling loudly by this point, "and point an accusing finger at me when you are nothing more than a dimwitted Tory, whose only use-"

She reaches out and lands a palm flat 'cross my cheek.

For a few seconds, I am stunned into silence.

"I am _no_ dimwit either," she seethes, "and I run _no one's_ errands." Her voice quivers, but I know it is not fear. " _I_ chose to go to your tavern! I chose to dress as a man to steal past your useless sentries and to sit in on your treasonous conversation!"

Grabbing her forearms, I guide her backward until her spine meets the wall. Of course, as I now know she is not a small man, but rather a large-mouthed woman, I wrap my arms around her waist so that she does not sustain injury.

"For what purpose were you there?" I demand, feeling her warm, deep breaths on my neck. "Answer me, Isabella, or by God, I shall-"

"You shall _what_ , Edward Cullen?"

I know not if it is my name finally falling from her mouth or the challenge in her eyes or the adrenaline coursing through me…or perhaps the darkness of the cellar coupled with the feel of her skin under my hands, which does away with every ounce of control left in me.

Cradling her face, I crush my mouth to hers.

The maddening woman does not even fight me!

Instead, Isabella Swan, my Tory enemy, wraps her entire body 'round mine, her arms 'round my neck and her legs 'round my waist. Her lips part as she speaks my name again, this time in a rousing whisper breathed into my mouth.

"Edward…"

Dear Lord in Heaven, I am lost.

"Isabella…"

I suck greedily on the sweet nectar of her lips, softer and even more supple than I have dreamt; for yes, I have dreamt. As in my dreams, her hands fist my hair at its roots, and she clings to me. When I attempt to pull away, she tightens her grip all the more. This time, 'tis _I_ who offers no resistance. Instead, I melt into her and bury my hands inside her silky mane, claiming her mouth with a passion I knew not I possessed for anything or anyone other than my country.

We continue in this lust-filled manner for what feels like ages, yet the hunger only intensifies with every passing second. Her entire body pressed to mine is the sweetest warmth I have ever imagined. My cock grows and twitches, straining for release from the enclosure of my tight breeches. I know not how Man has ever fought against such desire…ever _thought_ through such all-consuming sensations.

When I sense her fighting for breath, I pull away from her lips and skim softer, open-mouthed kisses across her jaw and down her smooth neck. Even the taste of her skin is inebriating. I find myself wishing she was in one of her elegant frocks with the top swells of her breasts before me, instead of dressed in this man-

This man…

'Tis that reminder which manages to break through my lust-addled mind. Somehow, I muster the willpower to pull away from the bewitching traitor in my arms.

"No, no, no!" I reproach myself, setting her down and raking a hand through my hair, fisting it so hard spots dance before my eyes.

As I attempt to regain control of myself, Isabella stands against the wall, her chest heaving wildly. Her long hair is now in a tousled disarray, her lips swollen, and her dark, impish eyes sparkling in the dim light filtering from above stairs. She is ravishing.

Yet, in spite of how…utterly perfect she looks, man-clothed and all, I force myself back to the task at hand. I am a _Son of Liberty_ , damn it, and she is a _Daughter of the Crown_.

"What were you doing in the tavern, Isabella?"

She folds her hands behind her back, of a sudden appearing so innocent. "I was curious."

"Am I supposed to believe that?" I smirk. "Were your kisses meant to lull me so I would easier buy your lies? For if that be the case-"

"I am _not_ lying." Her dainty nostrils flare. "For weeks, it has been obvious to anyone with one eye and half a brain that you and your friends hide more than smuggled ale within the tavern!"

I quirk an eyebrow. "Have you shared these sharp observations with anyone else, with your _lover_ or with your father?"

"I have _not_ , and pray quit calling him my lover!"

"Is that not what he is?"

She presses her lips together and does not respond.

"What am I to believe here, Miss Swan?"

"I care not what you believe, _Mister_ Cullen," she snarls. "You are a traitor and a smuggler attempting to bring about revolution merely to increase your gains!"

"Is that what you believe?" I step toward her, for she is like a flame, and I, the moth. "You believe I do all I do for profit?"

"What other reason can there be?" she counters. "There is no benefit in cutting ties with the Crown beyond an excuse to block shipments from England, so you and your kind may sell your goods without competition!" She curls her top lip, which just a few seconds ago was between my own lips. "So much hubble-bubble over _tea_. 'Twas only an excuse to rid yourselves of legally imported and thereby cheaper products!"

"Are you mad, woman? Do you truly not see why we needed to destroy the tea, or are you simply vexed because its destruction has meant you have had to do without?"

She stomps her foot. "'Tis about more than the confounded tea!"

"Exactly!"

"Exactly!"

"Correct!"

A humorless chuckle escapes her. "Mr. Cullen, in spite of our present agreement, I suspect we are not, in fact, agreeing."

"Heaven forfend we ever do, Miss Swan."

Her eyes narrow into indignant slits. When I once again dispel all space between us, she looks up with more wariness than with which she has ever faced me. Nevertheless, I cup her cheek gently and speak with more tenderness, for I have kissed this defiant woman, and so I shall attempt what I have never before attempted with a close-minded Tory.

"'Twas more than tea, Isabella. 'Twas everything which led to it. 'Twas the taxation, the legislation without representation."

"The crown taxes and legislates all its possessions-"

" _We_ are not _possessions_. The issue has never been the taxes but the manner in which they are imposed, the manner in which everything is imposed on us by Parliament as if we are cattle to be led and branded without choice. We are _men_ , Isabella. We are men, women, children… _humans_ endowed by our Creator with unalienable rights. Life, liberty, happiness; we should have the ability to seek these without answering to a Crown thousands of miles away. _You_ …" – I slide my hands around her neck, stroking her smooth skin – "you should not have to seek anyone's permission to display all the passion innately held within you."

As if with a mind of its own, my mouth has inched closer.

"I…but that is why we need the Crown, Edward. England is steeped in hundreds of years of tradition and knowledge. It is powerful. It protects all its interests. My father and his men protect us."

" _We_ can protect ourselves better than any force, whose interests lie elsewhere, ever can, for our first interest is one another. Can you not-"

Heavy footsteps resound above us, more than one set. Biting back an oath, I back away from Isabella just as the cellar door creaks open wider, allowing greater light to flood the corner in which we stand. The light grows brighter as one by one, four pairs of feet pound the steps leading down.

Emmett appears first, with a lantern in hand, followed by Jasper, Jacob, and behind him, Katrina. The four halt a few feet away.

Jasper's gaze pans between us before inscrutably settling on me. "How goes the interrogation? What has she to say?"

"She says…" I exhale, "she says she was curious."

"Curious?" Emmett echoes.

"Curious," I confirm.

"Curious." Jacob nods slowly, his massive arms crossed over his chest. "'Tis a dangerous thing in these times, that of curiosity."

Behind me, Isabella is eerily silent.

"And how much of this… _curiosity_ ," Jasper further enquires, "was at the behest of our friend, James, or even better, at the urging of her father, the Captain of the County's British Regiment?"

"None!" Isabella snaps, "as I have already explained to Edward!"

"You've explained it to _Edward_ , have you, _Miss_ Swan?" Jasper smirks.

She presses together her lips, for his insinuation is not lost on her. Jasper senses much.

Jacob clears his throat and turns toward me. "Edward, what are your thoughts?"

My thoughts, he asks, as if I am capable of having any at this moment. Nevertheless, as I rake a hand through my hair, I reply instinctively.

"I believe her."

A tense silence fills the cellar.

"Regardless of…curiosity, there are only two salient facts here," Emmett finally volunteers. He lifts one finger for all to see. "One, she is a Tory," – he lifts another finger – "and two, she has decided to satisfy her _curiosity_ on the worst possible night."

For the space of an entire minute, no one speaks.

"The question is, Miss Swan," Emmett says, "what plan you to do with all you have learned?"

"She shall do nothing with it," I hiss. "She shall keep to herself what she has heard."

All eyes turn to Isabella.

"I…I…" And then, her innate stubbornness -nay, her stupidly innate courage rises again, and what she says does her situation no favors. "I cannot allow my father to be hurt or ambushed by your militias!"

Shutting my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose and drop my head, shaking it from side to side.

Yet another long pause follows.

"Isabella," I finally say, meeting her rebellious gaze, "you must see you cannot disclose what you have learned."

"But my father-"

'Tis Katrina who cuts her off with furiously spat words. "Your father is a Loyalist traitor, as are _you!_ Edward, 'tis obvious what must be done!"

"Is it? And what exactly is that, Katrina?"

In the meager light from the lantern, I see something dark lurking in Kat's gaze. It startles me, for 'tis something I have never before seen in her usual polite and seemingly harmless demeanor. Now, her gaze is so malevolent it makes me instinctively stiffen before Isabella, shielding her. And when Isabella's small yet strong hands slip around my waist, gripping me tightly…I know there is no turning back for me.

Katrina's eyes take in the position of Isabella's hands before her livid gaze returns to me. "Edward, _she_ is the enemy," she says bitingly. "She represents all we have fought against all these years, and she must be dealt with."

"Katrina, _no one_ will deal with her lest they plan to go through me."

Stupidly, she steps toward us, but Emmett sets his arm in front of his sister, halting her mid-stride.

"Edward, we have no choice!" she insists. "She will return to her father or to James and tell them of all she has heard! We must…we can…" she pauses to regulate her speech if not her plans, "we can ride her into the Pinelands and leave her."

"There are bears, rattlesnakes, wolves…" Jacob begins to point out, trailing off when he grasps her full meaning. "Are you mad, woman? It amounts to murder what you suggest, and we are not murderers!"

"It is _not_ murder," Katrina says calmly. "If we simply leave her there, what happens afterward is not our concern. She may merely receive a lesson which will frighten her into silence."

"Katrina, you cannot truly believe that an option?" Emmett questions his sister. "She is no trapper; she would not survive the night."

"We must do it for the revolution," she persists with less control, "to protect our brothers and sisters in liberty! Is their protection not more important than hers?"

Emmett sneers. "I begin to suspect this option has more to it than the revolution."

Jasper volunteers his thoughts. "Katrina does have a point. _Something_ must be done."

"And you believe abandoning her to the Pinelands be the solution?" Jacob questions incredibly. "We fight true enemies, not curious women!"

"I have not said I believe that the solution."

"Then what _do_ you say?"

"ENOUGH!"

All argument immediately ceases.

"Enough," I repeat through gritted teeth. "I want you _all_ gone from this cellar."

Katrina idiotically presses on. "But, Edward-"

"Katrina, I cannot even look at you at this moment," I say through a jaw locked so tightly my mouth barely moves, my gaze pinned to a spot in the darkness beyond her. "That you would suggest such a thing makes me believe I have never truly known you. Leave. _Now,_ " I stress when out of my periphery I see her open her mouth.

Picking up her skirts, she rushes above stairs.

Once she is gone, I address the rest of the men. "I ask the rest of you to trust me when I give you my word I shall-"

"Yet, therein lies the dilemma, Edward," Jasper says. "You cannot give your word for she makes no attempt to give hers." He speaks not in a confrontational manner, simply as fact.

"I _shall_ resolve the dilemma, Jasper. I promise you."

"I trust you to find the right solution, Edward," Jacob says.

Both men nod toward me, and when they remove above stairs, Emmett remains.

We hold one another's gaze for a few moments, the lantern held tightly in his hand. More than the others, he is like a brother to me, and so I allow him his scrutiny.

"A word, Edward," he requests.

Isabella drops her hands from my hips, and I approach him.

"Edward," he whispers close to my ear, "I do not agree with my sister's severity, yet the salient points she reiterated in her argument still stand: Isabella is a Tory, and she has heard damning information, which can hurt not only us but the _entire_ revolution. She knows of Mrs. Gage and of Dr. Warren. She could-"

"She will not."

He pulls back and meets my gaze squarely, no longer whispering. "She is not _disaffected_ , Edward. She is a true Loyalist. More than that, she is loyal to her father, and there is no man to whom a woman is more loyal."

"There is… _one_."

He exhales heavily and rests a hand on my shoulder. "Know you what you are doing, brother?"

"We shall find out."

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**

 **See you guys tomorrow!**


	5. The Incident Which Determines the Rest

**A/N: Happy Friday!**

 **This is the end of the Age of Edward portion of this story. I've added quite a bit though, so to those of you who read the entry, you'll find a few differences/additions.**

 **The original version of this chapter was betaed by the lovely Michelle Renker Rhodes.**

 **Some characters belong to S. Meyer, some belong to me, and some belong to history.**

* * *

 **Chapter 5 – The Incident Which Determines the Rest.**

Once Emmett removes above stairs, I draw in a deep breath and set the lantern on the bottom step. Then, I turn my attention back to Isabella. Even as I approach, her head is already shaking.

"Your friend asks a valid question, Edward. Know you what you are doing?"

I do not reply. Nevertheless, she shares her own thoughts.

"I shall not marry you."

With a snort, I halt midstride to shake my head in disbelief. "Isabella, your powers of observation and discernment are too sharp for your own good."

She arches a brow. "And you plan to remedy this?"

Resuming my stride, I stop before her and take both her hands in mine, weaving together our fingers. I aim for my touch to provide her some comfort, believing she must be terrified.

"When I am your husband, I shall help you channel your intelligence in the proper direction."

She throws back her head and laughs heartily, leaving me once again both awed and infuriated.

"Congratulations, sir, your winning argument has done its duty." She makes a grand display of pulling on our joined hands. "Make haste and lead me away to the nearest church."

She is teasing me, yes, but when she speaks, there is a shaky, quivering quality to her voice she cannot fully disguise.

"'Tis better than the alternative, do you not think?" I ask.

"The alternative being abandonment to the wolves?"

"Yes."

"Not particularly, no," she replies without pause. "I believe I would rather take my chances in the wilds of New Jersey."

"If you do not see I am offering you the best alternative, then perhaps you are not as discerning as I have credited you."

"Yet another winning argument – calling me dimwitted once again. Sir, you certainly know the way to earn yourself a wife."

"Isabella, I am not-"

"Tell me, Edward, do your fellow Patriots plan to elect you Representative now that the revolution is here? For if so, I have little with which to concern myself. Perhaps I might just wait out the end of this uprising here in the cellar. As eloquent as you are, it cannot last too long."

As I silently glare at her, she does not even blink.

"You are a maddening woman, you know this, right?"

To this, she makes no reply.

"What need I say to convince you?" I murmur more softly. "Just tell me."

When she drops her gaze to the space between us, I see her soft lips tighten into a straight line, her dainty nostrils flare.

"Have you forgotten, sir, that I already have a suitor?"

The mention of James at this moment truly threatens to undo my control. My first instinct is to tell her if she wants her precious James, she may have him; though, they shall both have to quickly learn how to fend off wolves and bears.

Yet…yet in the next second, all the fury leaches from me, and I merely want her agreement. _Why_ I want it so desperately is yet another question I have not the luxury of time to examine.

"Tell me true, Isabella," I say, raising her hand to my mouth and watching her as I skim my lips up the inside of her wrist, "has James ever made you feel the slightest fraction of what you felt when you wrapped yourself around me earlier?"

"Edward…"

She has such a way of breathing my name, like a soft summer breeze kindling my skin. As if with a mind of its own, my mouth inches closer until I hungrily capture hers once more. And just as she did before, Isabella fists my hair and wraps her limbs around me.

"Say you shall be my wife," I murmur in her ear.

"No," she breathes instead.

My mouth skims downward. Simultaneously, my hands begin working the buttons on her man's shirt.

"What are you doing?" she whispers.

I halt and look up, my heart hammering in my chest. "Shall I stop?" I ask, for her reply will determine all between us.

Her breaths are quick and shallow, and her dark eyes like two black jewels, rich and sparkling as she slowly shakes her head from side to side. My hands verily shake as I return to the job before me. When all the buttons are loosened, I eagerly pull the shirt open.

My heart may jump out of my chest, yet I care not as her two small yet perfectly rounded breasts are exposed to me. They are pure perfection, and they heave up and down with her breaths. I begin to suspect I have indeed lost my heart and gone to heaven.

"Lord, thank you," I vaguely realize I murmur before leaning in and wrapping my mouth around one tender mound. Instinctively, my hand reaches for the other.

" _Oh, Edward,_ " she moans now, the sound like the harps of angels. Palming the back of my head, she fists my hair as my mouth tastes her, and my hand explores. I swirl my tongue around her stiffened peak and groan. Then, I lick and kiss my way to the other. They are as soft as the clouds above must be. Yes. Yes, I am most assuredly in heaven, and Isabella is my own, personal angel.

"Softer and sweeter than in my dreams," I say, voicing my thoughts.

She chuckles huskily, playing with my hair. "Have you dreamt of me, Edward?"

"Nightly," I confess as I run a trail of kisses from one divinely exquisite breast to the other. I can feel her heart racing in between them, and I smile smugly in the darkness. "I dreamt much more as well, as you will discover in our marriage bed."

"How can that be, when I am not marrying you?"

Now, my heart stops.

Backing away from her, I raise myself to my full height and look down at this woman. She holds my gaze brazenly.

"You, madam, are _no_ angel from heaven."

Her brow lifts high.

"You must marry me now, Isabella! You are compromised, and you must marry me!" I repeat. My eyes narrow indignantly. "Or do you make a habit of allowing such-"

"Pray tell me exactly how many times you plan to insult me while you ask me to be your wife?" she snaps, angrily buttoning her shirt. "No. If I _must_ be clear, no, I have never allowed such a thing!"

I press together my lips and rake a hand through my hair as a wave of desperation envelops me, not only due to what is occurring in this cellar but due to what is occurring outside. 'Tis where my focus should be! Instead, I am in here, confined in this dark space, confined in my tight britches.

With a loud groan of frustration, I begin pacing and yelling.

"You are driving me mad, woman, you know this, do you not? I should be out there!" Stopping, I gesture with my hand toward the outdoors. "I should be rejoicing, celebrating, preparing to fight, preparing to protect and defend my homeland!"

"Then go, Edward," she shouts back, "and allow me to return home!"

I rush her so quickly, she gasps.

"I cannot."

This time, when my lips crush hers, I part them with my tongue. At first, she is obviously confused, but then, slowly, her tongue begins to move with mine. She is, in her own way, so sweet and innocent, even as our bodies move and align together like two pieces of the same puzzle.

"Please," I plead desperately now, "say you shall be my wife or I shall die right here. _Feel_ how much I need you." I press my stiffened cock against her stomach.

The Imp chuckles against my mouth. "Impressive, Edward, but you will not _die_ from not having me." With her palms on my chest, she sighs and pushes me away, meeting my gaze. "What's more, if we were to marry, you would find no opportunity in which to have me, for my father would kill you before your britches could even hit the floor."

I smirk at her. "Trust me, he would not. I would be quicker."

She snorts. "Then he would kill _me_ for marrying a Patriot."

Now, 'tis my turn to laugh. "He shall be furious, yes, but I do not believe he would resort to murder. What's more…" Pausing, I cup her cheek, for I begin to better understand this woman. She is not, in fact, an imp – well, perhaps somewhat. "Isabella, I promise you, if you marry me, I shall do my best throughout the coming struggle to ensure your father's safety."

She lifts a dubious brow. "You cannot guarantee that, Edward."

"You are right. I cannot _guarantee_ it," I confirm. "I am promising to do my best. 'Tis different."

Her swollen lips purse together. "As long as I do not speak of what I heard in the tavern."

"Correct."

"Correct," she echoes dryly. "Edward, I am not at all convinced these are the best of reasons to commit to marriage. _You_ would do so to prevent me from speaking of what I heard in the tavern. _I_ would do so to prevent your friends from feeding me to the wolves and to obtain your word that you shall _try_ to ensure my father's safety."

I circle her soft lips with my finger, hungry for them again. Hungry for them still. "Can you truly say those are the only reasons, Isabella? Can you say you do not want me?"

"Setting aside want, we would be marrying for the most miserable of reasons."

"Not the _most_ miserable. I have heard of many a union based on worse reasons."

"Worse reasons than threats and bribes? Pray enlighten me."

"Well, we could marry for…for…" I exhale through my nostrils. "I cannot think of any worse reasons at the present, but I am confident they exist."

She growls and pushes me away, but as I said, I am beginning to better understand this woman. Chuckling, I grip her arms and remain close to her.

"What of _love_ , Edward?" she says, looking up at me and sounding so innocent once more. "I thought love, especially here where we are supposedly so free from the constraints of England, was to be the main reason for marriage. I do not love you, and you cannot claim to love me."

Something in my chest constricts tightly at her pronouncement.

"You cannot claim to feel nothing, as evidenced by your reactions to me." In illustration, I lean in and brush my lips against hers, gently now, kisses so soft they are as the feathers of doves. When I pull back, I grin at the dazed look which plays across her beautiful face. "I arouse you."

She grins back impishly, eyes half-lidded. "Arousal is not love."

I slide my hands around her neck. "Isabella, I want you more than anything. No, arousal and want are not love, but you arouse more than my body. You arouse my mind, and I cannot picture that _ever_ changing. 'Tis a good beginning for a wedded union, do you not agree?"

Still, she shakes her head, of a sudden seeming so melancholic. "But you do _not_ want me more than anything. You are a son of liberty first and foremost. Are you not?"

When I cannot reply, I swallow thickly and once more brush my lips against hers. But she is no fool.

"That is not a response," she whispers shrewdly.

"We need not have an answer for _everything_ at the present," I breathe in return.

Again, she pushes me away. "Edward, I am a Loyalist, you are a Patriot, and I do not foresee either of those positions changing with this revolution. In fact, I see them intensifying."

Frustrated, I exhale heavily and step back, raking a hand through my hair. "Then, perhaps I _should_ just leave you to the wolves. 'Twould be one less Tory," I shrug.

Fury flashes like wildfire in her dark eyes, and once more, she lifts a hand. This time, however, I have anticipated her. Before she can strike, I firmly yet gently wrap my hands around her arms.

"My love, you will need to learn to control your instincts, for I will not have my wife striking me every five minutes."

When she realizes I was merely teasing her, she scowls darkly.

"That was not humorous."

Nevertheless, I chuckle as I release her arms. She proceeds to shove me hard in the chest.

"Oomph!" I say, still chuckling. Grabbing those fearless hands, I use them to pull her against me. As she offers no resistance to either my touch or my words, I marvel at the peculiarity that this Tory woman should fit my arms so perfectly.

"Isabella, if this land was colonized as a place where all – Quakers, Catholics, Scots, English, all could coexist, why cannot a Tory wife and a Whig husband?" I wonder aloud.

"Because those others did not have to share a bed."

I confess I am fully distracted by that statement. For, if I manage to get her to agree to marry me, then this very eve, Isabella shall share my bed. Her warm body shall wrap around mine once again, except then, we will be _unclothed_. She is passionate, a quickly lit flame; I have borne witness to this firsthand. She shall cry out my name to the heavens as I have been told women in the throes of pleasure do. She shall allow me to-"

"Edward, this is insane."

She shall allow me to…to be her comfort. To be her home.

I am learning.

With my thumb under her chin, I gently guide her eyes to mine once more. "Let us make ourselves one vow, Isabella."

She quirks the brow I am beginning to see lifts when she is curious.

"Regardless of what comes, regardless of this revolution and for which side we fight or cheer, let us not keep from one another those things which truly matter."

"'Tis a lovely sentiment in theory, but how would we determine what those _things_ may be? Our union would be full of secrets, our marital felicity doomed from the start."

'Twas a couple of months ago, the night I met Isabella, when I taunted James with the same sentiment regarding his chances at a happy union with Isabella. Believing she was as disaffected regarding our colonies as he, I openly wondered how such a marriage could work when they lacked a belief system in _anything_.

The problem here is, Isabella and I have more than sufficient belief – on opposing sides.

As these thoughts plague me, I swallow thickly and cradle her face between my hands. Yet, as I gaze into her dark orbs, I can no longer imagine a time when I will _not_ do so. Perhaps 'tis why I am willing to say whatever must be said, even if I am unsure of so much myself.

"I believe, if we are honest with one another in those matters regarding our union, the rest shall fall into place."

She searches my eyes, and I do something I would have never believed myself to do: I open myself to this Tory woman, who by all rights is my foe.

"Very well, Edward. Yes."

"Yes?" I repeat, startled, for regardless of all I have said, I did not actually believe she would agree.

"Yes." She repeats shakily, smiling up at me uncertainly. "As insane as it is, I…I shall marry you. I suppose 'tis the only way I shall leave this cellar."

"'Tis not the most overjoyed of responses," I reply.

She holds my gaze silently, and after a moment, I offer her a much more optimistic grin of my own before pulling her into my arms.

"I will be a good husband to you, Isabella," I vow. "You will have no cause to repine your decision."

And, despite everything before us, in spite of _so_ many unknowns which I, perhaps naively, cannot even fathom at that moment, I truly mean it.

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **Alright, guys. I added some stuff, but this is basically the end of the** _ **Age of Edward**_ **entry portion of this story. Everything which will follow will be new. See you guys next week!**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**


	6. Chapter 6 - The Incident at the Church

**A/N: Thank you so much for your wonderful thoughts.**

 **Here we go. The Age of Edward portion of this story has all been posted. Now, we're entering all new territory. Hope you enjoy it. :)**

 **Some characters belong to S. Meyer, some belong to history, and some belong to me.**

* * *

 **Chapter 6 – The Incident at the Church**

Much of the next few hours transpire with dizzying haste.

With her much more subdued, I guide the woman who shall be my wife above stairs, where we find a full house indeed. My father, Carlisle, as well as Emmett and Katrina's father, Duncan, have both arrived. Apparently, they have been informed of the events of the past hour, for neither looks shocked to either see Isabella and I appear from the cellar nor at the sight of Isabella's peculiar choice of outfit. All the men, however, do wear looks with no slight degree of consternation. Emmett's wife, Rosalie, has also turned up. She sits at the table watching us, while Katrina sits opposite her, with her back to the room.

I suppose the role of husband and protector is already kicking within me, for as everyone's less than hospitable eyes land on us – save Katrina's, who looks our way not at all – I hold tight to Isabella's hand. Then, I nudge her slightly behind me to shield her from the group's censorious gaze.

Of course, she lifts her chin and resumes her place at my side, _not_ behind me.

"Isabella and I shall marry," I announce to the room at large, my jaw locked and held as high as hers. I have promised Isabella she will have no cause to repine her decision, and I mean to keep that promise through the coming conflict…somehow.

My father steps forward, his eyes flashing to Isabella before returning to me. "I suppose congratulations are in order."

Despite his words, congratulations are not in his expression, not at all. Neither does he offer me a handshake. Regardless, I have no time for injured pride or feelings.

"We must ride to the magistrate with haste, for her father will search for her as morning arrives."

"Or earlier," Father says. "If we have had word of the events occurring in Massachusetts, 'tis logical to assume Captain Swan will have had word as well. His day may begin much earlier than the norm." He hesitates, his gaze once again drifting to Isabella before swiftly returning to me. "Son, may we have a private word?"

As I prepare to reply, Isabella's tightening hold around my hand is almost indiscernible. In the next moment, I know not how to respond. I have given her my word I shall try to be a good husband, but…she is a Tory, and we are in the midst of an uprising against those she reveres.

Rosalie interrupts before I may betray either future wife or country, and both in such early stages.

"Isabella shall come with me."

Isabella and I turn as one. "Where plan you to take her?" I ask brusquely.

"Relax, Edward," Rosalie replies. She holds up her arms, wherein I spy a long, pale gown. "Plan you to take your bride to the altar with she wearing men's breeches and a waistcoat? For that would be an auspicious beginning indeed. I have brought something which should suit appropriately."

She is correct, yet my unease does not diminish. Nevertheless, 'tis Isabella who unknots our hands and looks up at me with a mischievous gleam.

"Heaven forfend I say our vows in anything other than pale silk, for _that_ would be the foreboder of an ill-fated union."

She walks backward a couple of steps, her gaze remaining on me. "You may have your few words in private." Then, she turns her attention to Rosalie and curtseys. "I thank you for your consideration."

Rosalie simply stares at her and then nods toward the staircase leading above. "Go on then."

In her own right, Emmett's wife is a force with which to be reckoned. But, she has had a hard life to justify her own hardness. Her outward beauty did not save her from the beatings of a drunkard father, nor has it spared her from a continuing inability to carry a child to term in spite of her respected role as the town's midwife. Nevertheless, she is a decent woman at heart, and I trust her with our Cause as implicitly as I trust her husband.

Still, as I watch both women ascend the stairs, I am not so sure they will both come back down alive.

"Edward," Emmett says, as he has come to stand close to me while I stared upward. When I look at him, he smiles faintly and claps my shoulder. "I do offer you my congratulations and my most sincere wishes for the best."

"Thank you, Emmett," I say, truly touched.

He then chuckles. "If nothing else, she will keep you on your toes."

I merely snort in reply. Jasper and Jacob approach next and also offer as close to heartfelt congratulations as they can manage under the circumstances.

My father speaks next. "Edward, we have had further word since your sudden and necessary departure from the tavern. The colonial alarms sounding throughout the Massachusetts countryside have likely alerted the British Regulars that they have lost the element of surprise, yet they march onward to Concord. As far as we know, they have not called for reinforcements."

"They are trying to keep this from growing out of hand," Jacob says.

I nod my agreement. "They hope to capture Sam Adams and John Hancock, as well as the military supplies, as peacefully as possible. But as all those have already been moved and hidden, they will find nothing."

"Nevertheless, militiamen await them in Lexington," Jasper adds, "ready to make a stand if necessary. Yet, as they will be outnumbered by the British Regulars, should the Regulars do as they've done in the past when they've marched and found nothing, then the militiamen will not sacrifice themselves for no reason and without a declaration of war."

"So, it may all still lead to nothing," I clarify, admittedly a bit disappointed.

"Perhaps," Jasper nods. "I shall ride back to Philadelphia before the sun rises, where fellow riders will gather for more news. I apologize I will not be able to attend your wedding," he grins wryly.

Then, Duncan approaches. He is similar to his son, Emmett, in physical characteristics: dark hair, blue eyes, broad and brawn. Yet, he lacks his son's ability to remain amused by life. I respect him, but I do not like him overly much.

"Are you sure this wedding is necessary, Edward?"

"Yes," I reply shortly.

"Perhaps there is some other way," my father adds to the argument. "Especially if what occurs in Massachusetts does not even lead to revolt. 'Twill all be known one way or the other by morning anyway. Perhaps you should wait until we know more of-"

"Carlisle," Emmett says, "the Massachusetts issue aside, she knows Mrs. Gage spies on her husband for us."

"She knows Sam Adams and John Hancock were forewarned, and the military supplies moved and hidden," Jacob further contributes.

"And how can you be sure marrying her will keep her mouth shut?" Duncan questions in a hiss.

"Because she will come home with _me_ ," I hiss in return. "She will no longer live under her father's roof. She will be _my_ wife, and her loyalties will belong to _me_."

Yet…even as I say this, a small voice in the back of my head whispers…I may not be marrying her so much to keep her quiet as much as to keep her from harm.

"And then afterward?" my father asks.

"Afterward?"

"Yes, son. Afterward. What plan you afterward?"

"I…she will live with us- that is, while I build us-"

"I mean, _afterward_ as in this night, after the wedding."

My eyes narrow.

"If you are set upon this course, you must take it all the way, Edward. You must allow her no opportunity to change her mind and return to her father a maiden woman with choices."

My nostrils flare, and when I speak, my words erupt through a clenched jaw. "I will not discuss-"

"You must put a child in her quickly!" Duncan adds. "A woman will think more carefully about turning on the father of her child than about turning on the husband she barely-"

"Do not you dare finish that thought!" I growl in Duncan's face. "I care not whose father you are, I will not have you speak of my future wife as if she is some broodmare beast, nor will I stand here and speak of our marital-"

Of a sudden, a chair scrapes across the floor, and Katrina runs above stairs.

Before I completely lose my patience and push my fist into Duncan's face, Emmett stands between his father and me.

"Father, enough," he says with authority, his lip curled in disdain. "'Tis not for you to tell Edward how to manage his affairs. He is a man grown, and he knows what he is about."

Duncan glowers at me. " _He_ was to marry Katrina."

"I _never_ -" I begin enraged.

"All right, enough!" Carlisle says, forming yet another barrier between Duncan and myself. "Edward has made his decision. Now, let us all calm down and return to the task at hand." He rests a hand on my shoulder, but when I yank away, 'tis not due to his assistance.

"I shall go retrieve Isabella, and she and I will leave for the magistrate immediately," I seethe before turning.

"You cannot go to the magistrate," Jacob says.

"Why not?" I wheel around, taking out my ire on him.

"You forget the magistrate is James' father and a Tory? He will never agree to perform such a union."

With a loud groan, I rake a hand through my hair. "God above, this just gets simpler and simpler, does it not?"

"We shall go to Reverend Weber at the Old Tennent Church," Emmett says. "Rosalie recently delivered his fourth son, and he already has a fifth child on the way. But we must leave now, Edward, for Captain Swan will soon note his daughter missing if he has not already."

"I am ready," I confirm. "I need just find my…my…"

When I turn around, all my breath leaves me in a rush.

Isabella stands mid-staircase. She wears her hair pinned up and an ivory gown, whose embellishments I cannot describe for I barely see them. All I see is her, like a glowing vision amid the darkness surrounding us.

I simply grin at her, unable to form words.

"It appears my husband-to-be thanks you for your consideration as well," Isabella says, though her smile is somewhat tight.

The next hour transpires in a cloudy haze. We ride through the dark streets and woods of Freehold before arriving at the white-paneled Old Tennent Church. By the time I help Isabella off of Aro, my heart pummels in my chest. I can barely see straight enough to set her down safely amid the headstones surrounding the church's entrance.

For her part, she has been eerily quiet as well.

"Are you well?" I ask her.

"As well as can be expected considering the circumstances, sir," she replies.

"Isabella, in a few minutes, I shall be your husband. Perhaps you might try leaving off the _sir_ when addressing me." I push a stray curl behind her ear.

"We shall see," she replies.

As Rosalie and Emmett dismount their horse, for they have accompanied us as witnesses, I ponder Isabella's reply, wondering whether she means we shall see her abandonment of the word 'sir,' or whether we shall see if she is soon to be my wife.

Either way, in the next moment, we are at the church doors. Rosalie is in front, knocking, for she is the one who keeps delivering the babies we shall use as bargaining chips. Isabella and I are behind her, and Emmett brings up the rear behind the both of us. Part of me begins to wonder what would happen if the Reverend did not answer.

What would happen if I simply gave Isabella my word I would try to spare her father from the muskets and nooses of our militia, and in return, extracted a promise from her not to speak of what she heard? As Rosalie continues knocking, the pummeling in my chest multiplies to the beat of Rosalie's fists. My breathing is loud and hard to my own ears, and my heavy breaths swirl before me. My palms burn and sweat. My dry mouth opens.

As does the door.

The Reverend wears his nightshirt and nightcap. He carries a molten candle in one hand and a dirty musket in the other; though, I know not how he would plan to use the musket, were it necessary, with his other hand occupied as it is.

Nevertheless, his eyes squint through the candlelight as he looks us over and settles his gaze on Rosalie.

"Mrs. McCarty? What do you here at this time of night? 'Tis almost two in the morning, madam."

"Reverend Weber, I apologize, but we need a wedding ceremony performed."

"Now?"

"Yes, sir. Now."

"At two in the morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why cannot it wait until full morning?"

"Because it cannot, sir."

Once again, his squinted gaze travels beyond Rosalie. This time, when he notes us, it is with more interest and awareness.

"You are Edward Cullen, from the tavern." He raises an eyebrow meaningfully, for he is a Patriot, at least.

"Yes, sir. I am."

His eyes trail to Isabella beside me, scrutinizing her, but she, he seems to fail to recognize.

"Why cannot you wait until morning?" he asks again, returning to me.

"Because we cannot, sir," I repeat evenly. "We need the ceremony performed now."

"If she be with child, she shall still be with child in the morning. God is not blind in the middle of the night."

"I am not with child," Isabella hisses indignantly.

"Then, why-"

"For the love of all, I give up." Isabella throws up her hands and turns on her heel. And although, I too want to turn and run, for some reason, I grab her arm firmly yet carefully and keep her at my side.

"Wait," I order her with emphasis. Then, I return my attention to the reverend. "Sir, we need you to marry us, and we need you to marry us _now_. I cannot wait until morning to make her my wife, for if I try to wait, I assure you, bad things will happen."

Now, he turns his scrutiny to me, and a look of understanding seems to cross his features. "Ahh," he says, nodding slowly, "now, I see. Yes, young man, yes. Lust is certainly a bad thing, and 'tis better to marry than to succumb, but cannot you have hand-fasted or bundled?"

"We need our union to be as official as possible," I growl impatiently.

"Then, can you not at least control your urges until sunrise?"

"Reverend Weber," Rosalie cuts in. "You and your wife, with your four children, have certainly searched me out on the births of at least two of those four at the most inconvenient of times. Yet, I have never complained, have I?"

"A child's entry into the world cannot be controlled," he retorts.

"And neither can a man's desire to bed his woman," she counters, "as you well know, with a fifth child on its way and your wife only three months birthed."

"True enough," he concedes with a smirk, opening the door wider. "Very well. Come in, and we shall get this done quickly so that I may return to my Abigail."

OOOOOOOOOO

He only asks two more questions as he guides us into the church and toward the altar - Isabella's name and age. I answer both questions, assuring him she is indeed of age, as she seems to have suddenly lost her tongue.

The reverend stops momentarily at the mention of her surname, lifting his brow, but as I've said, he is a Patriot.

Then…we are standing at the altar before God and facing one another. I vaguely know Emmett is at my side, and Rosalie is at hers. Candles have been lit to illuminate the church house. Their glow reflects off of Isabella's dark, almost black eyes, and I am reminded of when I first met her those few weeks ago.

"I, Edward, take thee, Isabella…"

"I, Isabella, take thee, Edward…"

Her chest heaves as it did that evening of the assembly, yet, there is something different about it.

"For better, for worse."

"For richer, for poorer."

There is an impish, half-smile playing on one corner of her soft lips, just as there was at the assembly.

"…and thereto I plight thee my troth."

"…and thereto I plight thee my troth."

Belatedly I realize, I have no ring for her.

"'Tis no matter," Reverend Weber says rather impatiently. "'Tis just a symbol. As long as you repeat the words and I finish with, ' _you are now husband and wife,'_ then you are husband and wife."

"I apologize, Isabella," I murmur, taking her hands in mine and drawing her closer. "I promise I shall get you a ring."

She chuckles. "A lack of ring has been the least of our concerns this night, do you not agree?"

I pull her closer still, chuckling myself. "You are an Imp, through and through."

"And you, sir, have about ten seconds to change your mind and rid yourself of me."

She is now against my chest, straining upward to hold my gaze. "I think not," I grin. "It is too late already." Carefully, I set two fingers under her chin and lean in as her eyes begin to close.

"Yes, yes," the Reverend agrees. "Very well, with no other concerns, and by the authority committed unto me as a minister of God, I declare you husband and wife. Those whom God has joined together, let no one put asunder. Good night." He turns and leaves.

My mouth finds hers, and we seal our union with a gentle, tender, and sweet kiss that nevertheless rocks me to my core.

In the midst of an uprising, I am married.

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 *****A little bit of Colonial History, for those who are interested*****

 **Handfasting -** Since the Middle Ages, it was accepted practice in England, especially for those of the lower classes, that a couple could have a common law marriage arrangement, and as immigrants flowed into the New World, they brought the custom along. The arrangement consisted of joining hands and declaring that you took each other to be a lawfully wedded spouse. The ceremony could as easily be performed in a field, a garden, an alehouse, or, as was often the case, in a bedroom.

Obviously, there were many potential pitfalls to this sort of union. It could not be legally enforced, for one.

 **Bundling -** or bed courting, as it was also known, was introduced to the American colonies by the early flood of Scots, Welsh, and other European immigrants. The idea was that if a couple was seriously courting, it should spend a night together in the girl's bed to ensure compatibility. There were ground rules: underclothes must be kept on at all times, parents would retire to their own bedroom, and there should be no hanky-panky. To that end, the bundling board or the bundling sack might make an appearance. The bundling board was a large plank placed between the two lovers. The bundling sack was like a double sleeping bag sewn up the middle. Very often, suspicious holes were found in both the bundling boards and bundling sacks, and nine months later….

Bundling, like Handfasting, was not a legally binding form of marriage.

See you guys later this week!

Twitter: PattyRosa817

Facebook: Stories by PattyRose


	7. Chapter 7 - The Incident at the Farm

**A/N: Thank you so much for your wonderful thoughts.**

 **Some characters belong to S. Meyer, some belong to history, and some belong to me.**

* * *

 **Chapter 7 – The Incident at the Farm**

My new wife and I arrive at the farm under cover of darkness, with only half a moon and Aro's instincts guiding us. I have allowed him to set our pace instead of riding him hard as I did earlier, for Isabella sits sidesaddle in front of me, with my greatcoat wrapped around us both to shield us from the sheets of wind. There is no longer need for haste despite the less than handful of hours remaining before sunrise. When dawn breaks, we need be in town to deliver Captain Swan the happy news of his new status as my father-in-law.

As I assist my wife off of Aro and set her firmly on the ground, she tilts up her head to examine the red-brick farmhouse of which she shall now preside as mistress. The house rests atop one of the few hills in these parts of Freehold. The woods encroach behind it, while the farmland spread in front is cleared, flat, and rich earth. In daylight, looking down from the house provides a magnificent bird's eye view of the surrounding terrain.

Isabella's expression is frustratingly inscrutable – though lovely in the moonlight.

Jacob suddenly appears in the darkness. His white teeth verily shine from between his wide grin as he reaches out and shakes my hand.

"Congratulations, Edward." Grin still in place, he nods in the lady's direction. "And congratulations to you as well, Mrs. Cullen."

'Tis difficult to control my shock at the new title. I hope the nighttime obscurity has concealed it.

"Thank you…Jacob?" Isabella murmurs quietly.

"Yes, madam. At your service." Jacob reaches for Aro's reins.

"Jacob, I know not why you awaited my arrival. I can settle Aro in the stables."

Turning his attention to Aro, Jacob gingerly pats the horse's mane. "With all that occurs in Massachusetts, I cannot sleep until we receive further word." Then, he begins leading Aro away, but before the darkness swallows them, I hear something murmured faintly. "Besides, you have more important duties this night than stabling the horse."

He chuckles heartily, the cur.

"Come," I say quickly, hoping Isabella did not hear. Taking her hand, I lead us forward and up the hill.

The dewy grass makes a muffled sound as it wilts under our feet. The hidden crickets are much louder. My heart joins in the disjointed chorus, especially as we arrive at the house. We climb the narrow steps leading to the door, and I ponder whether I should carry Isabella over the threshold or allow her to walk through. Too soon, however, the door is open and we have crossed inside, and I have not carried her. The stab of regret is sharp and immediate, and I fear I shall always bear remorse for the missed opportunity.

Nevertheless, Isabella moves forward without so much as a glance back. Through the narrow hallway and into the front room she wanders. The fireplace is lit, glowing bright within the hearth, and radiating enough heat to kindle the moderate space. When Isabella stops, so do I.

"Father?" I call.

No response rings out.

Isabella walks about the room taking in everything from the painting of Mother hanging over the fireplace to the Grandfather clock to the wooden table and chairs to the writing desk and everything besides. Her fingertips join her eyes, running both over every surface she encounters.

"Father?" I say again. Again, I receive the same lack of response. "Where can he be?" I mutter.

"It _is_ the wee hours of the morning, sir. He is likely sleeping. Or, perhaps he is making himself scarce as did your friend by the stables. It _is_ our wedding night, after all," she says dryly as she turns in a circle to observe all she may have missed – which I am beginning to see is not much.

"Would you like something to drink or to eat, madam?"

"No, thank you."

Her droll, overly formal manner combined with her sharp observations fluster me. Perhaps 'tis why my next words hold more mockery than assurance.

"'Tis a decent enough home, I assure you, Isabella. You need not inspect every nook and cranny. It is perhaps not as elegant as the Smythes' home, which you and your father have commandeered in town," I say in a biting tone, "but, I believe there is little you shall lack."

"I thank you for your assurances," she replies. Then, quitting her perusals, she turns to me. "You hold slaves, Mr. Cullen?"

"No, madam, in this household, we do _not_ ," I reply, nostrils flaring. "The family which helps us around the farm is paid fair wages and has a home of its own on the land. They are our _friends_ , and they are respected as such. And pray use my first name when addressing me. Neither do I hold with the old, British custom where a wife addresses her husband by his surname."

"Such a modern gentleman you are, _Edward_ ," she emphasizes. Turning her back to me, she walks toward the fireplace. " _We_ hold not with slavery either, for your information. Father has always taught me 'tis a barbaric practice. However, if I recall correctly, I do believe he enjoyed Mother addressing him by his surname when she lived. So there is that."

"She is dead then?"

"These past eight years, Mr.-" she begins, catching herself, " _Edward_. Much like your mother, mine became ill and never recovered - if that part of your story was true."

"It was, and I am sorry, Isabella," I breathe rather awkwardly, apologizing for more than her mother's death. Nevertheless, she acknowledges my remorse neither by words nor by actions. Instead, she keeps her back to me.

"I suppose it was a rather difficult event for a ten-year-old girl, but seeing as Mother had little choice in the matter, I try not to hold it against her. Besides, Father has done his best to play the role of both parents, while still faithfully serving the Crown." Her petite shoulders rise and fall. "And now, I repay all his work and sacrifice on my behalf in this manner."

Swallowing thickly, I step toward her. Lifting my hands to her shoulders, I squeeze them gently. She is soft like a spindle of wool. When I turn her toward me, her face is flushed by her proximity to the fire. When I lift her gaze to mine, she takes me in through dark eyes which still hold the fire's flames.

"All will be well, Isabella. He loves you. I have observed so even in the few instances I have seen you both together."

"Oh, I do not doubt his love for me. Despite what you may think of him, my father is a good man, Edward. He is a _just_ man. The question is, how do I justify my marriage to you? I cannot, and so I must allow him to believe I have betrayed him. I simply wonder if love can withstand such betrayal."

With no answer for her, I draw in a deep breath and release it slowly.

She snorts, grinning wryly. "I have found that when you have no answer for me, you simply do not reply. I suppose 'tis better than a lie," she shrugs.

I hold her gaze. "We must leave before sunrise. You should get some rest."

OOOOOOOOOO

My bedchamber is not the Master's chamber - Father holds that honor. It is neither large nor ornate. The wood-paneling assures it heavy darkness, which must be dispelled with plenty of candles, of which none are currently lit. The two generous windows on opposite sides would also assist in providing light were they not covered in drab curtains meant to keep such out. There is a dresser, on top of which rests a basin and a pitcher meant for morning and evening washing, and a small mirror for shaving purposes. There is a narrow clothing closet. There is a writing desk and a small table with only one chair. There is a fireplace, which as the one in the front room, has also been lit. It now roars, so as we enter, the room is not completely in the dark nor the cold.

Lastly, there is my bed.

'Tis a small one, set against the wall opposite the fireplace almost as an afterthought. The thick bed curtains on the side opposite the wall hang from one of the wooden beams on the ceiling. One bed curtain is open and carelessly pushed behind the wooden bedpost. Through it, I spy the disheveled counterpane and the thankfully empty chamber pot haphazardly pushed under the bed. The other bed curtain is thankfully still closed.

Here again, my new wife allows her eyes to wander. I take a seat on the lone chair and begin to remove my boots and stockings.

"'Tis a dark room, I know. Or rather, I see it through your eyes now." A rather shaky chuckle escapes me. "Of course, you may make any changes you desire here."

She nods slowly.

Clearing my throat, I stand again. "Very well. I shall let you get some rest; though, meager it must be. It has been a long evening for you, and I imagine you must be exhausted. Unfortunately, I will have to wake you in a couple of hours so we may go meet with your father. Until then, make yourself as comfortable as possible."

I am babbling like a fool.

"Good night, then." I turn to leave.

"Where do you go, Edward?"

"I shall take the guest room for now," I reply without facing her.

She is silent, which makes the roar of the fireplace all the louder. After a few seconds, I resume my stride.

"Edward," she whispers.

With a breath, I turn toward her.

"Do you recall…what you said just a few short hours ago, about being honest with one another, at least in terms of those matters regarding our union?"

"Yes, Isabella," I say softly. "I recall."

Her piercing eyes hold mine, locking me in place. "Then I shall tell you this," she murmurs. "Your father is correct. Before I see my father, you must ensure this marriage cannot be annulled, for otherwise…" her chest rises and falls heavily, "otherwise, I cannot promise you I will not ask him to annul it."

I squeeze shut my eyes before rushing over to her. Again, as in the cellar earlier, 'tis one of the few times she appears truly innocent, like a deer lost in the wild. My chest constricts.

"Have I made you so unhappy already?"

She shakes her head. "I am not unhappy so much as I am unsure of what I have done, unsure of the future, and I crave the safety and familiarity of my father and my home."

I feel the deep frown marring my forehead. " _This_ is your home now, Isabella, and the familiar is not always better, my love. I understand uncertainty can be...frightening, but-"

She throws up her hands and growls. "I am not frightened! I simply want an end to the indecisiveness churning within me!"

"And you want me to take it away this way, by taking away your choices?"

She places her palms flat on her stomach. "I am unused to the sensation, and 'tis making me sicker than anything else. Even sicker than you and your obvious disapproval of me."

"Isabella…" I exhale heavily, then carefully reach for her hand. Weaving together our fingers, I guide her to the disheveled bed. Then, I take a seat and seat her beside me. After raking my free hand through my hair, I take both of her hands.

"I do not disapprove of you. I am simply…nervous," I admit.

"Nervous why of a sudden? You were ready enough in the cellar; though, perhaps in the almost complete darkness of the cellar, and then outside in the night, 'twas easy enough for you to forget what you were truly doing. In the cellar, the feel of my body made it easier for you to forget my loyalties and to imagine…to imagine I was someone else. Now, in the relative light provided by the candles and fireplaces, you see more clearly. You see you have married your enemy."

"Do not say that. I have not married my enemy. I have married a beautiful young woman-"

"-whom you barely know-"

"You are transferring your fears onto me, Isabella. You see me as the enemy, yours and your father's. But as your loyalty must now belong to me, so shall mine to you."

"How can that be?" She shakes her head. "How shall you reconcile loyalty to me as a wife with loyalty to your cause? You cannot even hold a conversation with your fellow patriots while I am in the room."

"Yet, you ask me to bed you, with all these doubts in your mind?"

"As I said, you were ready enough before."

"I would not have taken you in the cellar."

She is silent, dropping her gaze to the wrinkled bed covers. She is…she is…by God, Isabella is not frightened, she is terrified. But I will not point it out to her. Instead, I place my thumb under her chin and guide her eyes back to mine. Slowly, I lean in and press my lips to hers. They are as soft and malleable as before, and I hunger for them no less than I did in the cellar or at the altar.

My wife.

She responds just as she has every time, and as I slide my hand around her neck, our kiss deepens, our breaths pronounced and heavy, mixing between the both of us. Soon, I push her back against the bed and lay my body over her soft body. She pushes her hands into my hair and grips it between her fingers.

My passionate wife.

I pull away from her addictive mouth, gasping for air as does she.

"Do you miss New York?"

Her brow furrows deeply, obviously bewildered by my question.

"I…yes, I suppose I do."

"You miss your friends there?" I further inquire.

"Y-yes, I miss my friends. I have known them all my life."

I rest my weight on my elbow and circle her lips with my finger, waiting.

"Jessica, you have met," she finally says.

I chuckle. "Yes, I recall Miss Van Statten. A most…interesting creature."

"You mock her," she frowns further. "Jessica may not be the…wittiest person, but she is sweet and kind."

"How can that be? She is Tory."

Her eyes flash, and she instantly shoves me off of her. I comply with a loud chuckle, sitting on the bed beside her.

"I am teasing you, Isabella."

Nevertheless, she glares at me. With a snort, I lay beside her now, propping myself up with an elbow. Then, I begin to untie my cravat.

"Tell me about the rest of your friends," I ask, smiling.

Her wide-eyed gaze falls to my neck. Nevertheless, she continues. "For what? So that you may vilify them as well for being Tories? We have our beliefs too, Edward." She sighs and relaxes her head against the goose-feathered pillow. A few loose curls splay across it. Her eyes pan back to mine, and I note how lovely and curved are her eyelashes. "We are not mindless creatures blindly following the Crown, as your patriot-disseminated and seditious pamphlets like to suggest. We are true people, who believe Parliament looks after our interests as fairly as it looks after its subjects in England."

"Which is not very fairly at all," I say, immediately regretting it and covering her mouth before she can counter. "Isabella, I apologize, but only because I do not want to speak of our political beliefs. I asked you about your friends." Slowly, I pull my hand away, ready to slap it back on if she plans to retort. Sure enough, her lips are pressed together tightly, but she manages to hold back her sharp words.

After a few seconds, she seems calm enough to reply evenly.

"I have another friend, Alice. I believe…I believe you might like her if you ever meet her."

"Oh? And why do you assume that?" I unbutton my waistcoat now and throw it to the side of the bed.

She purses her soft lips, but her lovely chest heaves up and down, and 'tis all I can do to keep myself from wrapping both hands around her breasts as is now my right and privilege.

"Well…for the past couple of years, she has become more and more convinced that there is some truth in what you Patriots speak. Though her father tells her to keep her treasonous thoughts to herself, which she is intelligent enough to do."

I am sorely tempted to point out the hypocrisy within that revelation, but my purpose here this night is _not_ political. Well, not entirely. Therefore, I simply nod.

"She does sound like an interesting woman," I say instead as I pull my shirt out from my breeches.

Isabella breathes in and out through narrowed lips. "I…I have met Mrs. Gage, Mrs. Margaret Gage, you know."

One of my eyebrows lift. "The British General's wife. Have you?" Quickly sitting, I begin to remove Isabella's shoes, keeping my eyes on her as I do.

Her eyes grow wide, and she nods. "They are friends of my father's. We have dined with them. They have children close to my age. I would have never imagined Mrs. Gage…" she trails off, her eyes locked on mine. "She was very maternal with me, and...I liked her. She must love Doctor Warren very much to betray husband and country."

"She perhaps betrays husband but not country," I clarify, throwing Isabella's shoes to the side to join my waistcoat. "She is New Jersey-born, not far from these parts as a matter of fact."

"And country apparently trumps marriage in these situations."

With a groan of frustration, I turn over on top of her and slide my hands through her hair, cradling her head, and acting as if I shall crush it between my hands - which I admit I am tempted to do.

"For the love of God, does this mind _never_ quit?" I demand.

Her doe eyes sear into mine, her words not quite as harmless. "I am afraid there is only one way it shall be quieted this night."

I snort and shake my head at her suggestiveness, and since my hands are already 'round her head, I begin removing her hairpins, allowing them to fall on the pillow. When I am done, she shakes out her long hair, and I crush my mouth to hers.

"Isabella…" I breathe against her mouth, "I crave you more than anything right now."

"Then take me." Her words and her body tremble as she wraps her arms and legs around me. Her sweet breaths fan my face and mouth.

"I desire you more than I desire news from Massachusetts."

At this, the imp I have married throws back her head and laughs, and 'tis...'tis an awe-inspiring sight.

"I am beginning to see what a compliment that is from you, Edward, and I am honored."

"And so, you see?" I say, smiling down at her, pushing her hair off her beautiful face. "We begin to learn of one another. You lost your mother young, as did I. But whereas I am a man brought up by another man, you were a motherless young girl, who craved a mother in spite of your father trying his best. You have made friends with varied backgrounds and personalities in New York, whom you miss. But I hope you shall make friends here which will make you feel more at home. And about me, I hope you have learned that although I may be a Patriot, I am a man still, and having _you_ , specifically, in my bed is heaven."

"Edward…"

Her eyes become half-lidded and then close completely as I lean in, but 'tis her forehead which my lips meet. Then, carefully flipping her on her side, I wrap myself behind her.

She freezes and stiffens.

"If I am still maiden when the sun rises, I warn you: you run the risk of being run through."

Chuckling softly, I push her hair away from her ear and whisper, "I shall take my chances."

What I keep to myself is that my wife must have at least some modicum of trust in me before I take such a thing from her.

"You are truly insane," she whispers.

"Perhaps," I allow. "We shall hopefully have many years together in which you may determine such. Now, go to sleep, wife."

She does not reply for a few moments, and when she does, 'tis hesitantly. "Good night…husband."

I brush my lips over her exposed nape, which has the unexpected and wonderful effect of causing her back to arch. Her rump presses into my now quickly growing member, and I almost give in to my need for her right then and there.

But no. My cock has waited one and twenty years for the heat of a woman. It can wait a short while longer – I think.

Besides, having her in my bed…in my arms…is very good, indeed.

OOOOOOOOOO

I wake to a meager hint of light creeping in through the heavy curtains. The fire in the hearth has waned, but I burn nonetheless. No, dawn has not broken, but with the heretofore unknown and magnificent warmth of having a body…Isabella's body, my _wife's_ body, wrapped within mine, I have overslept. My cock has awoken swollen and ready as well, cocooned as it has been by a plump rump. But still, it must wait, especially as we must now have to make haste yet again.

Nevertheless, I take a few moments to savor the feel of greeting the day with my wife in my arms and imagine years…nay, decades of awakening to such decadence. At the same time, I feel more at peace with my decision to wait to truly bed her. I tighten my hold on her, our hands entwined over her stomach. She makes a soft sound somewhere between a sigh and a breath, and I smile into her hair. When a set of horse's hooves pound the earth and approach, I imagine 'tis Jasper arriving with news. But then, another set of hooves joins the first and another. And another. And another. And then…

Hurtling out of bed, I grab my musket before sliding the curtain back just enough to spy Captain Swan as he jumps off his horse, with half a dozen men on horseback coming to a halt behind him. James rides at the front of these.

"Hell and damnation," I hiss.

As Swan stalks toward the house, my father and Jacob are already running out to meet him, their own muskets in hand. When Captain Swan points his pistol at my father and Jacob, both men come to a halting stop.

"WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER?" he howls.

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **I don't have a history lesson for this chapter. :(**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

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 **Have a great weekend!**


	8. Chapter 8 - The Incident on the Field

**A/N: Happy Halloween everyone!**

 **I'm actually off to see Aladdin on Broadway with my little one, so no trick-or-treating for me this year. For those of you who will go trick-or-treating, save me some candy. ;)**

 **Some characters belong to S. Meyer, some belong to me, and some belong to history.**

* * *

 **Chapter 8 – The Incident on the Field**

As soon as Isabella hears Captain Swan's voice – which, considering his outrage, is not so impressive an accomplishment – she sits straight up in bed. In her slumber, the neckline of her bodice has become skewed and the strings loosened. Her breasts practically pop out from the dress. Her hair is in a state of wild disarray.

She makes a lovely picture from which even the chaos fails to detract.

"My father!" she gasps. "How did he-"

"Where is my daughter? I demand her return! ISABELLA!"

"At this moment, the how of it is the least of our concerns." Allowing the curtain to fall back in place, I throw the musket over my shoulder and quickly point a finger at Isabella. "You, remain here!" I say firmly, and in the next second, I am at the room's threshold.

"No, Edward, I must come with you!"

"Damnation," I mutter under my breath, barely sparing a glance over my shoulder, for I merely plan to quell her rebelliousness with a sharp look. Instead, I find the heedless hellion indeed already halfway across the room – wild hair, skewed bodice, and all.

"Hell _and_ damnation, what did I just say? Remain here!"

When she halts and meets my gaze, the indignant fire which flashes in her eyes could light the dark room. Nevertheless, before we dissolve into an argument for which there is no time – as even now her father continues demanding her return – I re-cross the room and cage her face between my hands.

"Listen to-"

"You do _not_ -"

"Listen to me!" I tighten my hold to see if that helps. "Muskets and pistols have been drawn out there. In combination with fury and confusion, 'tis a volatile mix. Allow me to get the situation in hand before you come out."

"You promised to try to keep my father from harm," she grits through her constricted mouth.

"Isabella, I have not forgotten my promise, but I am a husband now – allow me to think of us as well! I have no desire for _either_ of us to become widowed less than a day married, and 'twill be easier for me to focus if you are safely indoors while I diffuse the situation. I beg you, remain here until I call for you," I say slowly and carefully, pulling away my hands with equal caution despite the lack of time. " _Remain here_ ," I repeat.

Her chest heaves with her heavy breaths, which are exhaled through flared nostrils, for her lips are pressed too tightly for respiration. When she graces me with a sharp nod, I make haste without another backward glance. The shouting and commotion outside have escalated. I take the staircase down in three leaps, lunging through the door.

The King's men have dismounted and stand behind Captain Swan with muskets drawn and facing downward – awaiting command. My father, Jacob, and a few others of our men are now here as well, all holding their own weapons in a similar fashion.

Captain Swan, however, points the pistol furiously at them while he and my father shout over one another.

"She would not marry without my permission or knowledge! She has been taken by force, and if she is not returned this instant-"

"I tell you, they are wed!" my father hollers. "She is mistress of this house, and you are on private property, sir, and we will defend both land and mistress by any means!"

"SHE IS NOT WED!" Swan counters frenziedly. "She-"

When I come into view, all shouting stops. And when Captain Swan points his pistol at me, every atom in my body begs me to point my musket in return. Nevertheless, I have taken vows with this man's daughter, and it would not do to begin our union by killing him. Instead, I begrudgingly hold up my hands, palms flat, in a display of nonresistance.

"Where is my daughter?" he grounds through teeth clenched so tightly I shall not be surprised if they happen to crack. His eyes are as dark as his daughter's, yet full of a much more ominous fury.

Out of my periphery, I see James standing at his right side, but for now, I ignore him.

"My _wife_ is inside," I calmly reply, holding the captain's murderous gaze.

"You bastard, what have you done to her?" James cries out beside him. "She is not your lawful wife!"

"You have ravaged her!" Swan howls.

"No!" I blurt quickly. "No! We were wed lawfully by a man of God, who will have our marriage certificate ready for your inspection this very day! Set down your weapon, and instruct your men to put away their own, and we shall do the same. Then and only then will I allow Isabella to come out!"

"You have stolen her!" James insists.

"Return my daughter to me this instant!"

"She is my wife now, Captain!" I repeat. "Set down your weapon, and order your men to stand down, so we may discuss this rationally."

"I will not barter my daughter with you," he hisses, cocking his pistol. "Men, make ready!"

"Captain, do not do this!" I beseech even as I reach for the musket hanging from my shoulder. In turn, his men, including James, now lift their muskets half way and line up in formation, three behind three, two rows deep.

"Take aim!"

In a practiced and uniform manner, the soldiers take aim. First, they raise their muskets to their shoulders. Then, they shift so that the rear-rank men are not directly behind the front-rank men and may fire between them. Military-issue muskets might not have much accuracy, but their ordered alignment ensures they _will_ hit something. My own hunting musket is much more accurate. Now, I aim it at the Captain. If I survive the first volley of fire, James shall be next.

"Forgive me, Isabella," I whisper to myself as I prepare for the Captain to give the command to fire.

"Father, no! No, Father!"

A flash of pale silk rushes past me. Instinctively, I reach out and grab it by the waist. Dropping my aim, I pull Isabella behind me as she struggles in my grip.

"Let go of me, Edward!"

"Release my daughter!"

"Edward!"

"Set down your weapons!" I shout through the mayhem. "Everyone set down your weapons NOW!"

My father, Jacob, and our men set down their muskets, but the Captain and his men appear bewildered, their weapons remaining at the ready.

"Captain, if your men fire, your bullheaded daughter runs the risk of being caught in the crossfire!" I howl. "We have set down our weapons, tell your men to do the same!"

His eyes grow wide as if the haze of fury hindering his intelligence has dissipated.

"Set down your weapons!" he commands instantly.

Instantly, all men – save James – obey. Instead, James moves to the front of the line and keeps his weapon trained on me, his gaze scathing.

"Let. her. go," he seethes.

I release my wife, for I do not trust James' judgment, steadiness, nor his aim at the moment. As soon as I release her, Isabella rushes to her father, who swoops her into his arms.

"Isabella," I hear him breathe as I keep my eyes on James. "Are you well?"

"Yes, Father, I am well."

"I am here now, my daughter. We shall return home, where you will be safe. I am here."

"Father," Isabella murmurs from the safety of her father's embrace, "thank you for coming for me."

All air leaves my lungs, as it appears I have lost a wife. Yet, I have no time to outwardly react in any way, for James' glare is murderous.

"I hereby call you out, Edward Cullen! Here and now!"

Raising my musket, I point it at James. "Are you sure you want to do that, James? Do not forget who attempted to teach you a modicum of aim."

"James, stop," Isabella snaps. Out of my periphery, I see how she still clings to her father. I suppose I should be grateful she at the very least wants to preserve my life. Or perhaps, she prefers the gallows for me.

"I shall avenge the theft of your honor, Isabella," James murmurs.

"You need not avenge a thing on my behalf. Now, set down your weapon," she growls. When he does not listen, she quickly looks up at her father. "Father, order your ensign to set down his weapon!"

The Captain orders no such thing as my one-time friend and I take aim at one another.

"As your suitor, I shall allow him his opportunity to avenge what has been done to you, as well as the insult to him."

"Father!"

"I shall kill you," James scowls.

"You may try," I counter, an empty sort of fury taking hold within me. "I shall even give you the first volley."

"Father, stop this! Edward _is_ my husband – my husband by choice!"

Two long seconds transpire before the Captain again speaks. "Ensign Pitman, set down your weapon."

James does not set down his musket. Instead, I watch as his hands tighten around the weapon and begin to shake almost violently.

"Ensign Pitman, by order of your Captain and superior in service to the Crown, you will set down your weapon or face an English court for insubordination! Ensign Pitman," Captain Swan says more calmly when James still does not obey, "do not force my hand."

The shaking intensifies before in one swift motion, James lowers his weapon, yet his outraged glare remains on me.

"Edward…husband," Isabella says softly, "set down your weapon as well so that we may settle all."

More than a handful of seconds transpire before I am sensible enough to lower my musket. I straighten, and now, with all weapons on both sides lowered, we stand in a tense impasse, which Isabella is the first to break. With a long exhale, she looks up at her father.

"Father…"

He takes her hand. "Isabella, I shall fix this, whatever it may be."

When she takes a step back from him, he appears shocked, and I see the anguish and guilt which engulf her features.

"There is nothing to fix, Father. I do thank you for coming for me, but…'twas not necessary, not in this manner. I am a woman wed."

"How can that be?" he hisses in disbelief. "You were safely under my roof last evening. You bid me good night and withdrew to your chambers." He huffs angrily and cradles her cheek. "Isabella, tell me the truth. Tell me what happened, and we will fix it together!" His eyes narrow into slits. "Did this man force his way with you somehow?"

"No, Father," she says quickly, shaking her head with vehemence. "I…we…" A series of uneven breaths escape her. "After I bid you good night last evening, I…I left the house without your knowledge, and I went to the tavern, where I found Mr. Cullen- that is, Edward, and…and we decided to marry."

When she is done, she lifts her chin as if in relief, for she has somehow managed not to lie – although, she has omitted more than half the story and all the salient facts.

"But again, how can that be?" Swan continues questioning. "Isabella, at times, you have been rash and impulsive, but never with such dire consequences! When in the world did you decide-"

'Tis as much as I can take, for I can no longer stand by and allow her to bear the weight of this by herself. Nor does it sit well with me for her father to call her such things – though it be true. In an instant, I am at her side, and I take her cold, shaking hand within mine.

"We are married, sir. That is all there is to the matter. She and I decided together, and it is lawful and binding."

The captain turns his eyes to me, to our joined hands, glowering before returning his gaze to Isabella with steely resolve.

"It is no matter. It can still be undone, Isabella," he assures her in a rush. "If the union took place merely a few hours ago, it can easily be annulled. Your youth makes you impetuous at times, but you need not suffer the rest of your life for a hasty decision. I am confident you have done _nothing_ which cannot be undone."

Isabella is silent. She drops her gaze to the ground, while my heart races like a galloping horse.

"I…I _have_ done things which cannot be undone, Father. I am a _wife_ in every sense of the word."

For one long moment, the captain scrutinizes his daughter as if he has not understood her words. His eyes narrow and appear to make a trail from her stockinged feet to her rumpled and skewed dress to her wild hair. He swallows and shuts his eyes.

Meanwhile, I turn away as well, staring straight ahead at the vast field before us. If I were to meet his eyes now, I am not sure mine would not give away the truth, that her appearance is due to a few haggard hours' sleep, not due to me.

From a few feet away, I feel James' umbrage radiating off of him.

"You _are_ his wife," the Captain finally agrees, his voice deflated of inflection and devoid of all emotion.

James, however, rushes forth at this. He shoves me hard in the chest, breaking my connection to my wife.

"No!" he spits scornfully. "No! This cannot be allowed! _I_ was her suitor!" He digs a finger in his chest. "She was to be _my_ wife!"

"James, I never agreed to be your wife," Isabella says evenly.

James ignores her.

"You are a thief!" he accuses, pushing me yet again. "In every sense of the word, you are a thief! You are a smuggler, who steals the Crown's profits for your own benefit, who has no respect for the Crown! Does your wife know this? Does your father-in-law?" he sneers.

"Stop it, James. I know not what my husband did in the past, but all I know of him now is he is a lawful man."

"Lawful?" he snickers derisively, his glare on me. "You know not your husband. Search his tavern, and you will find-"

"Ensign Pitman, mount your horse. You are upset, but recall yourself. These are not the words or actions of a gentleman."

James' eyes grow wild, nostrils flaring.

"James," I say, "I have allowed you your resentment and your physical release, for I know you envisioned a different end to the manner in which this played out. I will even apologize to you for the way in which the matter transpired."

I turn to the Captain, my father-in-law, who watches me stoically. His gentleman's upbringing now forbids him from displaying the loathing I know he must feel.

"I will apologize to you too, Captain Swan, for not properly seeking and asking for your daughter's hand. I am aware 'tis not the way a gentleman goes about these things. I am also aware of the insignificant weight my word must carry with you, but I do give you my word, as I gave it to your daughter, that I shall do my best by her."

The captain snorts, but otherwise, he makes no reply.

I take the few steps to Isabella, to my wife, and once more weave our fingers together before turning us both to face the Captain and James.

"Nevertheless, those were the only apologies I will _ever_ give for our union. Never again will I request pardon for marrying Isabella, nor will I _ever_ again stand for our marriage being censured or condemned in my presence," I scowl. "The matter is done. It must be accepted by all. Isabella is my wife, and _I_ am her husband."

There follows yet another long silence.

"Very well. Everyone, mount your horse. Mr. …Cullen." Captain Swan spits out my name as if it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. "May I have a final word with my daughter in private?"

'Twill be a final attempt to change her mind, of course I know this. Yet, I cannot truly fault him. Then again, they may speak of worse things. James has more than hinted of my smuggling. Isabella knows much more. There are a thousand ways this entire thing can still end badly.

Curiously, before acquiescing, Isabella's eyes meet mine.

"I do not control your daughter, sir. She is her own person, as I am sure you are well aware," I reply, keeping my gaze on Isabella, who quirks a brow at me. "I only attempt to give her directives when her safety is at issue," I smirk, for we all know how that worked out.

So, while Isabella walks away with her father, James approaches me on his mount. He sneers down at me.

"This is not over."

"It _is_ over, James. Isabella and I are married. Nothing you do or say shall change that salient fact."

"If I tell the captain of your contraband-"

"You may tell the captain all you wish," I say, cutting him off and more than ever grateful I never confided in him our true Cause. "It shall be your word against mine, and perhaps he will believe you, and perhaps I shall find myself in the stocks. Yet, when I come out, I will _still_ be Isabella's husband."

Out of my periphery, I see Captain Swan bestow a lingering kiss on Isabella's forehead. Then, in a subdued and impassive manner, he mounts his horse.

"Mr. Cullen," he says as his horse shifts from leg to leg, "however unwillingly, I pass on the care of my daughter to you. Make her your priority, sir, or you shall regret it."

I simply nod, and with that, he turns away his horse into a full gallop. The rest of the men follow suit. And with one final glare for me, James brings up the rear.

Isabella and I stand outdoors, side by side yet not touching, for a long while after they have disappeared from the horizon. My father and the rest of the men find activity indoors. The sun begins its ascent from beneath the hill and upward into the blue-gray sky, its beams glowing brighter the higher it rises. 'Tis a beautiful sight, and I hope one day Isabella and I may stand out here and truly appreciate it.

"He shall have someone bring my things," she says, her eyes on the golden wheat, yet not truly observing – at least, I do not think so.

I nod slowly. "Isabella…"

I know not what I mean to say, and before I can figure it out, a rider approaches in the burnishing distance. He grows nearer, and for a few moments, I am apprehensive that I will have to deal with either James or Captain Swan more decisively.

Soon, it becomes apparent 'tis Jasper.

"And so, the true priority approaches," Isabella murmurs. "I shall leave you to plot and plan." Yet before she leaves, she turns to face me. "I kept my end of the bargain, husband. Ensure you keep yours."

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**

' **See' you guys soon!**


	9. Ch 9 The Incident in the Dining Room

**A/N: Good afternoon! Yes, I'm late with this update, but I've had a cold for over a month which turned into some serious business over the weekend. All I can say is, thank God for antibiotics. What did people do before them? Well, we know what happened before them.**

 **Anyway, let's get on with it, shall we? A bit of a longer update to make up for only having one this week.**

 **Some characters belong to S. Meyer, some belong to me, and some belong to history. :)**

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 **Chapter 9 – The Incident in the Dining Room**

Isabella has a habit of rising with the roosters.

I have noticed this, even though one week after our union, we still sleep separately. Through the guest chamber's walls, I hear Leah, our housekeeper, enter Isabella's chamber – _my chamber_ – every morn. Yet, the walls also ensure their exchange remains muffled and incomprehensible. Isabella is likely accustomed to a lady's maid – someone to assist her out of her evening shift, into her morning stays and corset, to style her hair and such. Leah, however, is no lady's maid, nor shall I ask her to play the part. Nonetheless, Isabella has not complained.

She has not said much to me, actually, for the past week, not since her father rode up threatening to kill me should I not return _his_ daughter, then rode off leaving behind _my_ wife. She said even less later that evening when after much insistence on her part, I provided a brief and much-abridged account of the glorious outcome regarding the colonial militias' and redcoats' clash in Lexington and Concord. After all, 'twas her knowledge of the militias' forewarning which necessitated our hasty nuptials.

Once she is dressed in one of her fineries, Isabella does not immediately break her fast with the rest of us. Rather, she walks out of doors to wander up and down with the sun as it ascends our hill and the adjoining woods. It bathes row after row of dusky wheat in its resplendently golden dawn, before settling atop both Isabella and the entire field like a bejeweled crown. Even from within doors, 'tis a majestic sight, and I can only imagine how Isabella's sparkling, dark eyes must compliment the entire picture. Alas, that much I cannot positively determine from within.

Instead, every morning, I watch her from the kitchen window while the men and I gather to discuss the ongoing events in our country. We eat oatcakes Rosalie brings from her kitchen as well as pork rashers and cider, which Mrs. Clearwater – Leah's mother and our cook – prepares for us. Once we are done and head out for the morning to the fields and our other endeavors, I see Isabella return indoors. In the afternoons, when I search her out to inform her I shall be leaving for the tavern, I find her invariably near a window. She gazes out and merely nods in reply. When I return in the evenings, she has already retired for the night.

Thus, is our union. Whatever progress may have begun between Isabella Swan _Cullen_ and I in my chambers those early hours of April 19, 1775, as two opposing sides prepared for battle, was dispelled when the smoke cleared in the morn.

OOOOOOOOOO

And thus, continues this morn in late April, one week after our marriage. I stand at the dining room window and drink my cider while watching my wife outside and listening to Duncan's complaints behind me.

"Since hearing of the Massachusetts militias' victory in Concord and Lexington, many of those in our county still loyal to the crown have begun fleeing to Tory-infested New York under cover of night!"

Jacob's reply is muffled from what sounds like a full mouth, for Mrs. Clearwater and Leah tend to serve him generously. "Well, I say 'so long and good riddance'."

"May we help you pack?" Emmett chuckles heartily.

"Those who remain in our midst are confused and frightened," Duncan continues.

"As they should," Jasper hisses, "traitorous scum they be. But what is your point, Duncan?"

"The point is that now is the time to rise up against those traitors, for Freehold Township will soon descend into chaos!

From where he sits at breakfast with my father, Emmett, Jacob, and Jasper, Duncan sounds almost gleeful at the prospect of our county's imminent plunge into mass confusion. Meanwhile, Rosalie, Leah, and Mrs. Clearwater move between the dining room and the kitchen hearth, setting out and picking up as women tend to do.

"'Tis a true shame it must come to this," Rosalie says.

"But come to this, it must," Leah agrees.

"I do not comprehend why women always search for a peaceful resolution to all," Duncan mutters. "Katrina sits at home also bemoaning the current state of events."

"I believe 'tis another state of events altogether which my sister-in-law bemoans," Rosalie murmurs quietly as she hands me another oatcake.

Of course, I know why she says this. Before my marriage, Katrina would accompany Rosalie most mornings to partake in our daily ritual. Lately, she has kept to her house. Either way, I neither respond to Rosalie nor do I turn away from the sight of my wife standing amid the stalks. Her lovely face tilts upward toward the sun, and her chest rises and falls with a deep sigh.

"Duncan, we will not raise arms yet, nor against our own neighbors – at least, not without provocation."

"But Edward, the uprising is taking hold everywhere – from New Hampshire to the Carolinas! Every day, more militia arrive to surround Boston and lay siege to General Gage's army trapped within! We must rise up here and now before reinforcements to Captain Swan's regiment are sent into the county!"

"Father, calm yourself and see sense," Emmett says.

A palm smacks the wooden table. "I shall not! As it now stands, Captain Swan's regiment is not so large that we cannot-"

"No, Duncan." My gaze remains fixed on the woman outside, who resumes her slow ramble, her fingers now trailing over the tall blades of wheat.

"Why not?" he demands. "Since the battles in Massachusetts a week ago, Captain Swan and his godforsaken Regulars stand at the town common, drilling every morn and every eve for all to see!"

"'Tis a warning," my father says.

"'Tis a threat, I tell you!" Duncan persists.

"'Tis very much a threat and a warning," I confirm, "and one we shall heed – for the time being."

Emmett further attempts to appease the old goat. "Father, we drill the men every day as well, do we not?"

"We simply do not do so out in the town's common area," Jasper says.

"No. _We_ do so on Cullen land, in front of Edward's Tory _wife_. We may as well knock on Captain Swan's door and invite him to watch us!"

The heat of the kitchen's hearth abruptly hits me full force. It scalds my skin. I can almost see steam billowing toward the ceiling's wooden beams. It takes me a few seconds to realize the scorch is my boiling blood, and the steam blows from my own ears.

"Oh, hush, Mr. Duncan," Mrs. Clearwater instructs as she continues clearing the table. "The new Mistress Cullen is a sweet child – if a bit withdrawn. 'Tis to be understood, however."

I hear her skirts rustle as she disappears back into the kitchen, and once I have taken a breath deep enough to stave off a full explosion, I begrudgingly forego my view and turn to Duncan. When I speak, 'tis through my teeth.

"Duncan, what think you shall be accomplished by attacking a regiment which has not raised arms against us _other_ than gaining the ire of a well-armed force already enraged over last week's humiliating defeat? Do you not stop to think that the lobsterbacks will not only be better prepared next time but that they are more than ready to enact vengeance for the blow received at the hands of our brothers?"

"But they are distracted and surrounded in Boston!"

"Forget you what you just said yourself, Duncan," my father joins in, "that we have a Tory-loyal neighbor by the name of New York from which they may quite easily call in reinforcements?"

"What is more," I add, "when we _as one_ agreed to send some of our militia along with those from New Hampshire, Rhode Island, and Connecticut to assist in the siege of Boston, that cut our numbers here. Now, we must be patient."

"Patience? What need have we for patience? We _won_ the engagements in Concord and Lexington!"

"We won those battles because the militiamen waited!" I hiss, close to the end of my own patience. "They waited for reinforcements, which is why they outnumbered the British Regulars and sent them running back to Boston!" Drawing another deep breath, I continue in a more restrained manner. "Either way, we shall show restraint until we hear more from our fellow brothers in liberty."

"Sam Adams will not lead us astray," Jacob agrees, banging his tankard on the table. All the rest, save Duncan, join in, and the matter is closed. Emmett assures this by changing the topic.

"So, Edward, speaking of patience, how goes married life?" He grins.

Squaring my jaw, I return my eyes to the window and frown at the view, for I can no longer locate my wife.

"I find it not very different from bachelorhood," I reply distractedly.

"Then you are going about something _very_ wrong." Emmett's amused chuckles are returned by Jasper and Jacob.

"As mistress of this house, she should be here with the rest of the women and I, should she not?" Rosalie questions, having returned from the kitchen.

"You know that is not truly possible, Rosalie."

My eyes narrow as they search the golden fields below the hill through the sun's glare.

"I do not see why not. She _is_ your wife, is she not?"

Duncan snorts. "'Tis the sickest joke."

As I turn back to Duncan yet again, my nostrils flare. "What did you say?"

"Truthfully, Father, can you not quit? The deed is done, and nettling Edward about it serves no purpose," Emmett chastises.

Duncan glowers down at the table, and before I may add my own rebuke, another voice joins us from the threshold.

"A good morning to all."

'Tis uncivil yet understandable when no one immediately replies, for we are all startled. My eyes sweep to where Isabella now stands, petite yet straight, chin jutted and held high, and hands interweaved in front of her. She is dressed in clothing wholly unsuitable for the simple morning and quite different from the homespun frocks worn by the women loyal to our cause, who refuse to purchase linens from loyalist merchants. Her hair is styled lately by her own hand, yet still better suited for a stroll through the town common than for a day 'round the farm.

Leah is the first to respond. "A good morning to you, Mistress Cullen. Shall I prepare your morning meal?"

Isabella's curls shake from side to side. "No, I thank you, Leah. I am quite well for now."

Leah curtsies and disappears back into the kitchen, and immediately following, the men recover enough to stand, bow and offer their greetings to my wife. In turn, she curtsies to them.

"How are you this morning, Mrs. McCarty?" she addresses Rosalie, who has joined us from the kitchen.

"I am quite well, Mrs. Cullen, I thank you for enquiring," Rosalie replies, standing straight herself. Then, she adds, "'Tis prodigiously good to see you among us."

Isabella's amber eyes flash toward me. "Yes, I thought perhaps-"

"Duncan, have your legs sustained serious injury in the last half hour? Have you spilled coffee on your breeches or did you piss yourself and wish to conceal it? For these are the few, acceptable reasons I can fathom why you would not stand to properly greet my wife when she enters a room."

Duncan's hands grip his tankard tightly as he glares at the wall straight ahead.

"Edward, it is of no-" Isabella begins.

"I will _not_ stand and bow to the Tory woman who forced herself into our midst – a woman whose fellow, traitorous kind are responsible for the fall of many of our own kind, whose father even now trains his regiment to massacre more of us, and whom, for all we know-"

"You disrespectful, old bastard, that is more than enough!"

When I close the space between us and haul Duncan up by his neckcloth, both Emmett and Isabella rush me.

"Father, enough rankling!"

"Edward, do not-"

"Isabella, stay back," I instruct without moving my infuriated glare from Duncan. "Duncan," I hiss, "for one full week and for two reasons have I set aside what you did and allowed you into this house: out of respect for your children, and because we have issues of greater urgency at hand. But you have gone too far. I will _not_ have you insult my wife!"

"What that I did?" he demands, feigning ignorance.

"Think you I have not discerned who was the likely source from which Captain Swan gleaned of my marriage to his daughter?"

"Are you mad? Think you that was me? As if I would ever provide a dirty lobsterback with any sort of information!"

"Edward-" my wife begins again, but my hearing and vision are still tunneled in scarlet, and I simply tighten my fists around Duncan's neckcloth.

"Perhaps you did not approach the Captain himself," I concede, "but I would place my life in the hands of any other man in here, _excepting_ you. So, if _you_ did not provide the information directly to the captain, then you at least ensured he somehow received it!"

"What would I gain from such?" Duncan counters.

"Perhaps 'twas done in the hopes the captain would stop us from marrying and take his daughter back – perhaps you thought either one of those events would force us into a much more combative confrontation with the Captain and his regiment since you are so set on immediate anarchy! Do you deny this? Do you deny 'twas you, for I know it was no other man in here?"

Duncan opens his mouth as if to retort, but his eyes suddenly bulge, and his mouth shuts for a few moments before he drops his eyes to the floor.

"No, 'twas no other man in here."

"Edward-" Bella says.

"If you were not Emmett's father, I would beat you bloody," I spit, shaking him by his neckcloth. "Nevertheless, I will not have you on this property again until you ask my wife for an apology and give her what she is due as mistress of this house."

"An apology is not necessary, Edward," Isabella says. "He is not-"

"Do not listen to her, for it is decidedly necessary. _Now_ , Duncan."

"I am-"

"Pardon me. Good day." Bella turns and walks out of the room so swiftly, my eyes barely glimpse her skirt's hem as it snaps sharply in her wake.

Once again, as with her entrance, her exit leaves all momentarily speechless.

Duncan snorts. "Your wife has no understanding of subservience to her husband, does she?"

Slowly, I sweep my eyes back to him. "As you do not seem to understand something, I shall point it out before showing you to the door: we are in the midst of a struggle to free ourselves from subservience, and my trying to force such on my own wife would be beyond hypocritical."

"Not to mention how your own son has never sought subservience from _me_ , Papa Duncan." Rosalie slides into his now vacant seat and calmly sips her chamomile tea. "Else, he would have found himself wifeless long ago."

At this, Emmett chuckles. "'Tis true enough."

OOOOOOOOOO

Once all have dispersed, I go in search of Isabella, for despite what I said to Duncan, I must be honest:

I am seething.

"Disrespectful little hellion. When I find her, I shall wring her little…"

Muttering like a madman, I sprint past the fields, where I spy our men slashing the day's harvest. Their sharp scythes sweep rhythmically back and forth like a well-practiced dance. Under the morning sun, some stop and wave their hats in greeting before wiping the sweat from their brow or lifting a rum-filled tankard to already parched lips.

"'Tis time of day I should be out there as well instead of chasing after a wayward- Isabella!"

The fiery imp is already halfway 'cross the cornfields, holding up her hem as she goes.

"Isabella!"

She does not even have the decency to turn.

"Isabella!"

Finally catching up with her, I grab her hand and firmly yet carefully spin her toward me. And although I am too irate to have an exact speech prepared, I know my rebuke shall be along the lines of a wife heeding her husband's beck and call.

However, she beats me to the opening.

"I apologize for entering the dining hall while you were in congress with your fellow patriots. I suppose I should have simply remained out here or hidden away in your chamber."

"For the love of all, give me holy guidance with this woman!" I growl up at the sky before dropping my furious gaze back to her. "Firstly, 'tis _our_ chamber, Isabella, in _our_ house! You are its mistress, and you may enter any room you wish at any moment. You need not apologize for _that_! Secondly, the way you were greeted – or not greeted as be the case – was unpardonable. I will not have my wife disrespected! Yet, you-"

"Yes, 'twas quite the insult to _you_ , was it not?" She snatches away her hand and places it and the other on her hips. "Should I instead thank you for the scene in the dining hall?"

"No! I seek no thanks, but some sort of acknowledgment would not be remiss!"

"Acknowledgement for not being allowed to finish uttering one full sentence while I was there?"

"Oh, do pardon my interruptions as I am continuously called upon to defend you as is my husbandly duty!" I yell mockingly.

She snorts and throws up her hands. "Duty? Truly, Edward, was _that_ your way of fulfilling your duty, by embarrassing me because your friend refused to acknowledge me? Think you I care for some stupid man's acknowledgment or slight? Do you not see your response simply alienated me all the more from everyone else in the room?"

"How in the world-"

"Furthermore, as for being my husband, we are a man and a woman who reside under the same roof! It hardly makes us husband and wife! As such, I do not need you to defend me out of some misplaced sense of chivalry! I am able to defend myself just fine!"

"I am beginning to see this clearly!"

"At least you see something clearly!"

I spin around in a circle of exasperation, fisting my hair, and without conscious intent – for she truly steals all sense from me – when I stop, I say what first crosses my mind.

"Duncan was correct: you, madam, no nothing of respect."

Her head pulls back as if I've assaulted her, and before I know what is happening, she has pulled up her skirt hems and is once more on the move.

"Do not walk away from me, Isabella!"

Again, I chase after her.

"I did warn you this would not work," she seethes as she walks. "You cannot be both husband to me and patriot to your country. Your _friend_ obviously sees it clearly."

"Duncan is not my friend, as he proved by what he did."

When she stops and wheels around, her furious gaze halts me mid-stride. "By 'what _he_ did,' mean you releasing news of our marriage so my father could try to stop it or at the very least, take me back?"

"Of course."

"Of course." She blinks a handful of times, nodding slowly. "Edward, I truly hope you are better at keeping your own actions and motivations disguised than you are at reading other people's actions and motivations."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I doubt highly 'twas Duncan who released the information."

"Then pray tell me, wise one, who you believe the guilty party." Before she can reply, I raise a finger and point it in warning. "And do not try to turn me against one of my brothers, _wife_ ," I spit with admitted bitterness, "for I believe I know them much better than does a Tory woman!"

She exhales and shakes her head, only when she next speaks 'tis as if all fire has suddenly abandoned her.

"It makes no difference, Edward. It truly does not."

And with that, she turns on her heel.

"Come back here, Isabella, I am not done with you! Isabella! ISABELLA!"

This time, I do not give chase. Instead, as I stand there gripping my hair in both hands, the sun beats on my head as if in punishment, for what deed I know not. Meanwhile, _she_ disappears further down the golden cornfield.

"Well, your wife may be called many things to her back, but mousy and shy shall never be two of these."

I wheel around, surprised to find Rosalie behind me. Then I turn back to where my wife and her pale green dress begin to blend into the scenery.

"I do not want anyone calling her any names. She is _my_ wife."

"I see. And only you may insult her."

"I have not- Rosalie, leave me be."

She is silent for only half a minute.

"Edward, I have known you your entire life. When I was four, my mother was the midwife who delivered you into this world. She allowed me to accompany her, and I still recall the red-headed and bloody sight of you exiting your mother's womb, for you were the first babe I saw birthed. When my mother passed, 'twas your mother who nurtured me, and I loved her as a mother until the day she passed as well. Therefore, though the men of our cause defer to you both for your natural leadership and your skill with the hunting rifle, _I_ see you as a younger brother. As such, may I impart some thoughts?"

"Go ahead."

"You are behaving like a dunderhead."

Taking her in over my shoulder, I raise a brow.

"She does not respect you."

I open my mouth to rebuke her, but then…I simply sigh and turn my head back 'round.

" _But_ ," she emphasizes, "I sense Isabella is not the sort of woman who shall simply respect a man for the sake that he is a man or her husband. If you want her respect, you must show her respect."

"I _do_ show her respect," I scowl. "Did I not expel Duncan from my house for the insult he gave her?"

Rosalie chuckles. "Duncan is an old fool, fellow Son of Liberty or not. I know it, his son knows it, and you, Edward, have always known it. Usually, you do a decent job of ignoring him. But, let us be honest. You threw Duncan out because you were in high dudgeon long before Isabella even walked into the dining hall. You threw him out because you believe he went behind your back. And you threw him out because he was disrespectful to _you_ before Isabella arrived, and then he disrespected her role as _your_ wife and mistress of _your_ home."

"That is what _she_ implied as well." I wave a hand in Isabella's general direction. "But 'tis not…" I huff angrily, "'tis not…" I scrub a hand down my face. "I know not what to do anymore."

"Perhaps begin by showing her that her feelings and beliefs matter to you."

"Her beliefs," I snort, shaking my head. "I try to defend them." _To keep things from coming to a head between us and her father_. "But her beliefs are so contrary to mine that I cannot agree with her."

"Who says you need agreement for there to be a mutual respect? Edward, with mutual respect, come the solutions. 'Tis as true in marriage as it is in most things. Perhaps if more of your sex understood this, we would not be in the position in which we are. What's more, are her beliefs truly that different from yours?"

"Her beliefs that the Crown protects us, that even now, her father the Captain drills his regiment to _protect_ this county?" I sneer, turning back to Rosalie. "Would you have me believe that to appease her?"

She shakes her head. "I speak not of the Cause. Edward, there is more to life than this conflict, and if you cannot see past it, then your marriage will fail – and based on how she affects you, we all may pay the price for that."

She walks toward her carriage, and I follow to assist her. But then, she turns.

"One more thing."

"One _more_ thing?"

"Your wife seems the sort of woman who needs occupation to keep from stumbling into…predicaments. She was groomed to be the mistress of a grand Tory Estate, to plan and attend balls, to serve English tea, and to play the pianoforte to her heart's content. As you have neither a grand ballroom, an English tea set, nor a pianoforte at hand, I suggest you help her find other forms of entertainment."

"Do you have suggestions for _that_?"

"Well, there is always the obvious one, and if she be more fortunate than I, it shall leave her balancing a babe in her arms while two others pull at her skirts, and then she shall be completely out of your hair." Despite the pain which I know talk of mothering babes must cause her, she grins wryly. "But as I suspect that may not be the current state of affairs, I shall leave that part to you."

And with a chuckle, she picks up the reins and sets her carriage into motion.

OOOOOOOOOO

When I return from the tavern that evening, I tread above stairs heavy with exhaustion. Freehold Township is beginning to show signs of stress. There are whispers and allusions everywhere as both Tories and Whigs attempt to determine what is happening. Fights are breaking out between neighbors and brothers. Just this eve, I broke up a brawl in front of the tavern between a group of loyalists and a group of patriots in deep disagreement over what is happening in Massachusetts.

For now, Captain Swan and his regiment merely watch and await orders. Their twice daily drills in the town common continue, and 'tis becoming all I can do to convince not only Duncan but my other brothers in liberty that we need not expose our true affiliations and rise up against him – at least, not yet. I am no longer sure why I delay.

Except…

Except, as I pass my wife's chamber door – _my_ chamber door – I stop and stare at it for a few moments before sighing and trudging past.

But then – I am not even sure how or when I backtrack – I find myself knocking, heart racing as I wait, lungs freezing when she opens and stands there in her nightshift, her long, dark hair plaited over her shoulder and the candlelight which fills the space around her form dancing in her eyes.

"I have no white flag, but will this do?" I ask contritely, holding up a white kerchief.

Her eyes flash between me and the kerchief a handful of times before she pulls the door open wider and makes room for me.

"I suppose it gets your meaning across. Enter."

With a deep breath of relief, I remove my tricorn and walk past and further into her…my…our chamber. The fire roars in the hearth, and I note paper, pen, and ink on the small table. But when she shuts the door and turns to me, folding her arms across her chest, all my attention is diverted. Her perky little breasts balance above them, and with the relative transparency of her night shift, the dark pebbles in each center-

Damnation, I cannot allow myself to be distracted, for I am not here for that purpose.

Nevertheless, when my eyes meet those of the woman who misses nothing, she lifts a knowing brow before smiling impishly.

"So, how goes the plotting and planning this eve?"

Snorting, I shake my head and press my hat to my own chest. "Yet another thing I learn of my wife: she never says what I expect her to say."

"What are you expecting me to say?"

"I am never quite sure of that either."

A long silence stretches between us as the fire crackles in the hearth. I take two steps toward her and reach for her hand, weaving together our fingers and clearing my throat. She watches me warily.

"I have also learned she is an able walker."

At this, she chuckles. "'Twas a favorite past time of mine in New York, where there was always something new to see."

"As opposed to here in New Jersey, where the land stretches out unchanging for miles and miles."

She tilts her head slightly. "That can be a lovely and peaceful sight in and of itself."

I nod and swallow. "When I could not find you today, I began to worry you had walked straight back to New York."

"And here is something I have learned of my husband: he is prone to needless concern, for I have made a vow, and so where else would I be but on Cullen property?" she smirks.

"Do I detect a bit of mockery in that statement?" I ask with a smile.

She laughs in reply, and I take her other hand in mine.

"Ah, Isabella, despite the definite satire, that is a sound I have missed."

"Mr. Cullen," she snorts, "you do not know me long enough nor well enough to miss any part of me."

"That is where you are wrong," I murmur. When I pull her closer, her breath hitches, all sarcasm dispersed as her neck bends upward to hold my gaze. "What's more, Isabella, I am _Edward_ , your husband, not _'Mr. Cullen'_ and certainly not _'man with whom I reside under the same roof'_."

"I do not believe that was my exact wording." She smiles all too sweetly.

I draw in a breath and cup her soft cheek. "You are a maddening woman, you know this?"

When her eyes pan away from me and toward the fire, I slide my finger under her chin and raise them back to me. Her ensuing smile is painfully wistful, and I am not sure I would not prefer the satire. In turn, I speak much more softly than I did this late morn.

"I apologize if the manner in which I handled things earlier was offensive. Truly, it was not my intent, but though I am your husband, it is a role new to me."

She searches my eyes for a moment before nodding. "And…I apologize for being maddening."

"You are not sorry for that," I smile crookedly.

"No, I am not," she admits with a chuckle.

We laugh together for a moment before I give in to my need and draw her against my chest. As always in this short relationship of ours, she slides in without a fight and fits perfectly within my hold. I exhale against her crown, brushing my lips over the top of her silky head of hair.

"Another thing I have learned of you," I murmur against her scalp. "You are quick to anger…but quick to forgiveness."

She does not answer but tightens her hold, and _why_ did I sabotage this, I wonder for just one moment, for I know exactly why. I have known since I did so.

"Isabella…I also apologize for the manner in which I informed you of the militias' defeat of the Regulars in Massachusetts."

"Now _you_ are the one not truly sorry," she snorts, her words reverberating against my chest.

"Perhaps not sorry for their defeat, no. But I am sorry I was so smug about it," I pull her away only enough to meet her eyes, for I must have her see the truth in mine, "especially knowing your concern for your father. But, I was still bristling over the confrontation with both he and James. 'Tis no good excuse, I know."

She holds my gaze. "With another wife, you would have no need to apologize for not hiding your joy at your patriot victory."

"What another wife? I am not sure I will survive the one currently in my possession." I grin to let her know I am teasing. Nevertheless, she shoves me only half-heartedly, again appearing to search my eyes before she drops them and disentangles herself from me. She moves toward the fireplace and stands before it silently. The flickering flames illuminate and trace every single one of her curves under her shift, and I squeeze my eyes shut and look away. When I reopen them, they land on the desk and her letter.

"You were writing and I interrupted."

"'Twas only a letter to my friend, Alice, in New York. I was in the middle of a question to her, which I believe of all my friends she is the most suited to answer."

I nod. "Very well. I shall leave you to finish-"

She looks at me over her shoulder. "Edward, at the risk of harming our truce, may I ask the question of _you_?"

Again, I move closer. "Of course, Isabella."

She turns toward me fully now. "I have noticed you work the fields along with the men, and I wonder why."

My brow furrows. "Why should I not work in the fields along with the men?"

"Well," she shrugs one shoulder, "you appear to have sufficient assistance, and they are _your_ fields. No man should own another, this I know and believe heartily, but Father says there _is_ a rank to which people are born, a rank necessary to maintaining the proper hierarchy of society. And your rank should exclude you from working your own fields, should it not?"

"The proper hierarchy…?" For a fraction of a second, I am ready to lash out at her, but then…I realize something. She really is not attempting to drive me mad. She really does _not_ understand and is merely repeating what she has been taught all her life.

With a calming breath, again, I gently grip her shoulders as I think through my words before replying, for I cannot afford to continuously lose my patience with my wife. And perhaps…my duty is more than just to protect her.

"Isabella, if two babes were born on the same day, at the same time, and in the same place, together in one room, would somehow one have more importance than the other?"

"I suppose not as babes, for how can one babe be more than the other?"

"Then when?" I whisper gently. "At what point do these two babes, whom we've just agreed were born as equals, become unequal, other than for the opportunities given them? At what point does one become ruler and the other subject?"

She is silent for a long moment. "But society depends on a ruling class to lead."

"Society depends on a populace of equals to _choose_ who shall lead, 'tis not the same thing, my love. We are all born equal, and equal we continue under the eyes of God until the day of our death, do we not? For to which man has God given the divine right to judge and determine at which point precisely these men become unequal?"

I stop and wait, fearing she will reply that King George somehow possesses this divine right. But the minutes transpire, yet she provides no answer.

"Perhaps…perhaps, Isabella, rank is not a privilege to which anyone is born, but rather one to be earned."

For a long while, she appears confused and lost in thought. When she draws in a deep breath, I swipe a finger under her eyes.

"You look tired."

"I have not slept well lately," she admits, making my heart clench, for what am I doing to this woman?

"Go to sleep then, Isabella, and we can talk more in the morning."

I lean in to brush my lips against her forehead, but when I straighten and begin forcing myself to pull away, she does not release my hand. My heart stutters painfully as I meet her gaze.

"I have not slept well," she repeats in a soft breath, swallowing. "Not since…"

"I have not slept well since then, either," I confess.

She bestows upon me the impish smile I am beginning to adore more than anything. "Then…perhaps…."

Releasing her hand and keeping my eyes on hers, I begin to remove my coat. When all the buttons are undone, I throw it on the table over her letter, my eyes still on hers. She does not move. I am not sure she is even breathing, not even as I remove my waistcoat, my boots, and my stockings. When I am only in my shirt and breeches, I move to the edge of the bed and put out a hand in invitation.

"Come here, wife."

She chuckles and approaches slowly, almost skittishly before taking my hand and standing between my legs. And, although every atom in my body begs me for more, begs me to make her _wife_ , as I move back and pull her with me, I situate us sideways. With my body behind hers, she is cradled against me just as she was on our wedding night, one week ago. 'Tis incredible, but she feels even more wonderful than she did then as she relaxes into me, fitting against my chest as if she was born for that spot. Perhaps…she was.

Perhaps I was born to hold _her_.

When I pull back her plaited hair and place my mouth on the nape of her neck, again she arches, pressing her rump against my hardened groin. I release a breath against her skin, watching it pebble for me.

My Tory wife. My…wife.

"Would you like to go into town to visit your father tomorrow?" I murmur.

She does not answer immediately.

"Yes. Yes, I would."

I kiss her nape again, and she further adjusts herself as I entwine our hands over her stomach, and we become _almost_ as one.

"Good night, my love."

"Good night…my husband."

And yes. Yes, I know why I delay the imminent uprising.

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **Some of you have told me you either live or once lived in the area. So, here's a little extra visual image: I imagine Edward and Bella's farm to be Cannon Hill House, the big, red and white house on the hill in what is now Tennent/Manalapan, New Jersey. It's right up Tennent Road off of 522, about a mile past the Tennent Post Office. All that land surrounding it would've been theirs at the time: from the cornfields at the intersection of Tennent and 522 to the orchards back on Wemrock Road. Some of you familiar with the area might know what happened on that land during the Revolution…just look at all the signs as you drive by…**

 **But we'll all get to that together. :)**

 **Have a great weekend, and a blessed Veteran's Day, where we recall and honor ALL those brave men and women who have lived, died and fought in all our wars.**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**


	10. Chapter 10 - The Incident at the Orchard

**A/N: Thank you all for your wonderful thoughts. :)**

 **Some characters belong to S. Meyer, some belong to me, and some belong to history.**

* * *

 **Chapter 10 – The Incident at the Orchard**

The night Isabella and I married, I deferred my husbandly rights because she did not trust me, and I did not want to bed a woman who would look up at me with fear or incertitude in her eyes as I moved within her. Equally frustrating was having been afforded less than a handful of minutes to savor awakening to my wife's body before I was forced out of bed by her father's enraged howls. This morn, as my eyes pop open with the rooster's song, there are no such disruptions.

'Tis peculiar. I am normally of the sort to toss and turn endlessly in the night. I rise to feed the fire in the hearth and later rise to douse it. A thousand and one thoughts plague my mind. As a result, I usually wake with the sheets tangled about my feet and the counterpane strewn on the floor.

However, this morning as with the last morning I awoke with Isabella, the sheets and counterpane still cover my wife and me. The hearth's fire has diminished to barely a flicker, yet I am neither hot nor cold but rather snug. It may be due to how my groin is pressed to Isabella's plump rump, as well as to how I am grinding against it. I know not how long I have been doing this as it seems an instinctive act. My hands are much more innocently employed, entangled with hers atop her warm stomach.

In turn, Isabella's back rises and falls, gently nestled as it is against my chest. Soft breaths escape her, whistling lightly through her lips. 'Tis serene, though turbulent and bewildering all at once. For with all which occurs in our colonies, how can holding this Tory woman be so composing to my mind that I have not shifted into a different position even once all night?

Unfortunately, though no infuriated father interrupts this morning, the godforsaken rooster executes his duty all too well. Isabella makes the same sound she made the other morning, something between a sigh and a long breath, and with the rooster's final crow, I sense she is awake. Vaguely, I wonder if these two events – her long sigh and the rooster's last note – shall forever signal to me her rousing.

"Good morning, Isabella."

Her shoulders do not move as she replies. "Good morning, Edward."

In the ensuing moments of silence, I am lost as to the next steps, especially as I recall my hardened cock is still firmly tucked and rocking to and fro against her backside. Squeezing my eyes shut, I quit the rocking; although, no amount of self-reproach shall diminish its engorgement.

"Did you sleep better than you have for the past few days?" Considering my position, I inquire this in as much of a gentlemanly manner as I can muster.

"I was sleeping; therefore, I cannot be sure until I begin my day and feel the effects of my slumber."

"I did not feel you toss nor turn all night."

"Then, I suppose you are in a better position to answer your own question than am I at the present."

"Ah. Possibly."

We are silent and rigidly motionless, not even my cock stirs – though, 'tis still pushed against her. When Isabella's shoulders shake, I fear she has begun sobbing. In the next moment, I realize the imp is repressing fits of laughter.

"You can be maddening," I growl as she chuckles heartily.

"And you can be quite amusing."

When I brush my mouth against the nape of her neck, her chuckles cease, and she arches further into me. With a groan, I breathe her name into the quiet of the room.

"Ahh, Isabella…"

She does not pull away. Instead, Isabella squeezes my hand more tightly to her stomach. 'Tis reflex when the compulsive rocking resumes. With every pass against her backside, a wild sort of shock races up my cock, stiffening me further until 'tis almost painful in its distension. When my hands trail upward over her night dress, she does not loosen her fingers from mine. As a result, as I mold and squeeze, her hands tighten around both my hands and her own breasts. I hiss sharply, for 'tis the most arousing sensation of my life.

My lips skim open-mouthed on her neck, then ghost across to her shoulder, pushing aside the material of her nightdress and exposing her smooth skin. When she begins moving, 'tis at first tentative. But, when my thumbs find her stiffened peaks, her breath catches in a series of uneven sighs. She undulates back and forth against me as if it is the most natural motion in the world – as if she is a meadow in the morning breeze.

"Oh, Isabella…"

More than ever, I am aware how only a pair of breeches and a gauzy night dress separate me from heaven. When she turns her head, eyes closed, mouth searching mine, I fist the bottom of her shift and slowly guide it upward as our mouths meet and-

And the door pulls open.

Muted light spills from the hallway's candles as well as from the lamp suddenly invading the chamber walls. Instantly, Isabella sits up with a gasp, and I curse the heavens as I throw back my head against the pillow. I watch my wife pull the counterpane to her chest as if everything besides one bare shoulder was not completely concealed.

"A good morning to you, Mrs.- Oh, Edward, I apologize! I apologize to both of you! I did not realize you were in bed with- that is, I did not know you and Mrs. Cullen- what I mean is-"

"A good morning to you too, Leah," I mutter, eyes now glaring upward at the ceiling's wooden beams.

"Good morning, Leah. I shall be ready for you in a moment. Edward, Leah is here to assist me in preparing for the day."

Isabella appears quickly composed, though her chest heaves and her fists curve around the counterpane in a death grip.

"Very well." Sitting, I fling aside my portion of the covers, hurling out of bed in one motion. "In that case, I shall leave you to your preparations."

"Perhaps after I dress-"

"Do not concern yourself, madam. I have my own important matters to which I must attend."

I do not look her way as I snatch up my discarded boots and clothing. Meanwhile, Leah's eyes make a discreet circuit all about the room, obviously avoiding the sight of my far from inconspicuous and infuriatingly painful problem.

"Edward, Mama is preparing the morning scrapple, and your father is attending to the cows. Jacob is in the stables, and Rosalie and Emmett are already in the dining hall."

"Is Jasper here?" I snap impatiently, pressing my tricorn against my breeches.

"No, he is not as of yet here this morning."

"Fine. Inform those present I shall be down as soon as I am ready," I instruct curtly as I stalk to the door.

"Yes. Yes, _sir_ ," she stumbles in reply.

My hand tightens around the doorknob, yet…instead of pulling it open, I squeeze shut my eyes and exhale heavily. I am behaving like a dunderhead, as Rosalie would say. Swallowing thickly, I release the doorknob and turn back to Isabella. When my eyes meet hers, I offer her a contrite smile.

"Isabella, I have noted you enjoy early morning walks. May I join you for your sojourn today?"

"Your friends await you, and they will miss you if you are late." With that, she turns away, refusing to meet my eyes again.

It takes me a few seconds to swallow back the indignation of being summarily dismissed, for I might actually deserve it. In the meanwhile, I turn to Leah.

"Leah, I apologize for how I spoke. It was rudely done. I shall greatly appreciate it if you would please inform everyone that I shall not meet with them until later this morning."

Unlike my wife, Leah grants me a gracious pardon. "Of course, Edward. And no offense was taken."

"And…please excuse my wife and me for a few moments."

"Yes. Of course." She turns to leave.

"Leah, please do not wander far. I do not expect my _husband_ and I shall need much time."

"Yes, Mrs. Cullen."

When Leah leaves the room, Isabella and I hold one another's gaze silently for a few moments. When I approach and take a seat beside her on the bed, she once more looks away.

"For someone who claims to believe everyone equal, you just treated Leah abhorrently."

"Which is why I apologized to her, and why I would like to apologize to you as well."

She snorts in reply. I pry her hand off the counterpane, forcibly weaving my fingers through hers.

"Will you not look at me?"

She does not, even as she speaks. "Your apology is noted, Edward. Now, if you do not mind, I would like to get dressed, and you have people waiting for you with _important_ matters."

"Isabella…" With my thumb under her chin, I force her eyes to me and clearly see the fire still brimming within them. "I should not have said that. The most important matter I have this morning is that of rambling the grounds with you – if you will allow it."

She shrugs her bare shoulder carelessly. "They are your grounds. You may ramble upon them whenever you please."

"They are _our_ grounds, and I would like to hear you say you would like my company. Is that what you were going to say before?"

"I do not recall."

"You are prevaricating."

"I have no objection to your company on my rambles."

"That is not the equivalent of desiring it, Isabella."

She does not reply.

"Very well," I sigh, cupping her soft cheek. "I suppose 'tis all the concession I shall receive for now. I shall wait for you downstairs."

She gives me a curt nod and knowing I shall achieve no more with her at the moment, I quit the chamber.

OOOOOOOOOO

When she appears at the top of the steps, Isabella is dressed in one of her simpler frocks – pale grey with pink trimming and only slight lace around the neckline and sleeves – yet still quite elegant. Her hair is swept back in a careless knot, a few tendrils framing her face.

Nonetheless, she is so beautiful 'tis almost painful to watch her descend knowing she is still vexed with me. I grin appreciatively and take her hand when she stops, removing her glove to press her bare palm to my mouth. And although she attempts to disguise it, I hear her quiet intake of breath.

"You look lovely this morning, as you do every morning, Isabella."

"Thank you," she replies as she replaces her glove. "You look very handsome with your hair brushed back and tied so neatly, though your cravat is not knotted quite as handsomely as it was the evening of the assembly. But as I offended you that night by calling you handsome, I shall not do so again."

"I was not offended, Isabella. I behaved boorishly that evening, as I often do with you. Perhaps you are growing tired of it, but I do aim to be better."

Again, she does not reply.

"And I promise I shall not be offended if my wife chooses to continuously call me handsome," I grin.

Nevertheless, she does not rise to the occasion.

I sigh deeply as I give her my arm. "Very well. Come." As I lead her outdoors, to where the sun is still hidden behind the woods, she looks up at me.

"Where do we go?"

"I have a surprise for you."

She proceeds so hesitantly I am almost pulling her by the time we reach Jacob outside the stables.

"Good morning, Edward, Mrs. Cullen." He gives me a nod and my wife a bow. In turn, Isabella greets him with a curtsy and a genuine smile.

"A good morning to you, Jacob."

"Good morning, Jacob. Is she ready?"

"She is most definitely ready, Edward," Jacob grins.

"Who is ready?" Isabella asks, looking up at me curiously. "Edward, who is ready?"

I lead her further into the stables, to the young brown mare who patiently awaits. She has been brushed until her mane fairly shines. A new saddle rests atop her, oiled until the leather reflects its surroundings. The mare does not sway nor shy away as Isabella approaches. And when my wife reaches up and strokes her mane, the mare breathes through her nostrils in contentment, almost appearing to push further into Isabella's hand.

"She is not as large, as headstrong, nor as fast as Aro, but she is docile and well-trained. She will easily conform to her first mistress, and if she does not, at least her back is closer to the ground," I grin.

"She is beautiful, but mean you she is mine, Edward?" Isabella's voice is serene, but I am learning.

"Yes, Isabella," I chuckle. "She is yours. As I said earlier, I have noted you enjoy rambling, and while you may walk to your heart's content, there are places more easily explored on horseback."

"Worry not, Mrs. Cullen. I trained her myself," Jacob adds.

"And there is no better horse trainer in the land," I confirm. "I would not entrust my wife to anything less."

Isabella continues stroking the mare. "I am not very accustomed to riding horseback, most especially not astride, as you have seen."

"Yes, I recall," I smirk. "But she has been fitted with a side-saddle. You may also have her hitched to the small chaise, but I would truly like you to become comfortable riding horseback, Isabella, both side-saddle and astride. New Jersey is a small colony as compared to New York, but its land is better suited to horseback." I approach her and rest my hands on her shoulders. "I shall teach you."

At this, she finally turns. When her eyes meet mine, her dark gaze sparkles.

"You, yourself?"

Smiling, I cradle her sweet face and attempt to control my racing heart. For when she looks at me this way, I find I can barely think straight. Perhaps 'tis why I sometimes say such idiotic things.

"Yes, my love. Me, myself."

A genuine, beautiful and warm grin spreads across her lovely face. "May we begin right now?"

"Impatient hellion," I chuckle, my words shaky. "Would you not like to name her first?"

"I must think of a name. It is not something you can rush into without prior warning, you know."

 _Unlike our marriage_.

'Tis a sardonic thought for which I am instantly ashamed. Fortunately, Isabella is occupied with biting her bottom lip, her gaze diverted.

"I cannot think of one at the moment which will make both she and I happy. So, let us go for a ride in the meanwhile." With this, she rests a hand on my forearm. I look down to where she has touched me, for I feel the burn of her innocent brush throughout my entire body. We are both silent as I assist her onto her saddle, all the while a vague thought crosses my mind – that there _is_ a better sensation than the lust which consumed me a short while earlier.

When she is settled atop her nameless mare, I adjust her saddle and reins, shocked when she places a warm hand on my hand and waits for me to meet her gaze.

"Edward, thank you for her. Truly." Her voice is no longer as steady as it has been.

'Tis at that moment I realize I am willing to do more than I ever imagined to make my wife happy.

OOOOOOOOOO

We set out slowly, for despite the mare's training, I am nervous. My hellion wife, however, has no such concerns as we descend the hill, side by side and past the fields with which she has become familiar.

"Isabella, proceed slowly. You are only just learning."

"If we proceed any slower, we shall simply stand still."

The sun begins its true ascent, and while Isabella watches it bathe the fields, I watch her. The mare is indeed steady on her feet, and though Aro begs to break into a gallop, I keep him restrained. He is not happy, as evidenced by the heavy snorts he continuously blows through his nostrils. I pat his broad side.

"Yes, yes, I know, my friend. But we are men, and 'tis our duty."

Isabella rolls her eyes, muttering something about "duty."

"Your horse is restless, Edward. You need not keep our pace. We shall be good." Her ensuing smile is too innocent.

"I shall make it up to him later. Are you thinking of names for her?"

"I was considering Elizabeth or Anne," she says, her head held as high as the regal queens of which she speaks, "but perhaps they are both too formal."

I nod in agreement. "She is American, not British."

" _I_ am American too, Edward. Yet, I am named after a Spanish queen. _You_ are named after an English king."

"I am named after my grandfather."

She smirks. "What think you I should name her then? Chastity, Modesty, Patience, _Virginia_?" she drawls in that slow-speaking British way of our southern colonies. I cannot suppress a laugh.

"Heaven forfend you choose a colonial name for your pet."

"Perhaps I shall do so just to show you." She grins wryly.

For the next half hour, she runs through a list of names for her mare, most of which she vetoes herself. Nevertheless, her voice is soft and sweet, and I find it soothing, while at the same time I catch myself wondering how we would ever agree on a name for a child. Then again, before naming a child, I would have to create one with her.

'Tis this, the thought of _finally_ bedding my wife, which fills my mind as we leave behind the fields for the flat meadowland which takes their place. As the sun continues its ascent, I ponder all the different ways in which I shall take her tonight. And as the sun's rays fall over my tricorn, I am further kindled. It all combines into the most serene morning Isabella and I have shared in our short marriage.

Nevertheless, all the pondering has caused my breeches to tighten. When Aro turns his head and gives me a side-long glance, I decide 'tis time for a distraction, for both his sake and mine. With a signal and a tug on his reins, I allow him to break into a gallop around the mare.

"Aro, do not tease my horse," Isabella says, stroking the mare's mane. When Aro does not obey, she looks at me ruefully. "He is just like his master."

"If your mare will be skittish and drop you, I would rather she do so now before me instead of when I am not around."

My wife shakes her head. "Such gentlemen, the man and his horse."

I chuckle.

When the mare continues her soft gait, Isabella lifts a smug brow. "Happy?"

"Are _you_?" I ask instinctively.

As earlier, she does not respond, but this time, there is a soft smile on her face and 'tis enough – for now.

Remaining a few feet ahead, Aro and I lead Isabella and her mare to where the meadow ends. Here, the trees' branches extend like vines and create a canopy of pink and white blossoms above us. Yet another wide grin spreads across Isabella's angelic face. When the breeze blows, the branches' bow, their petals floating like snow. Isabella watches it all with such amazement, and when she turns and meets my eyes, I have found the answer to one of my many questions:

In the sunrise, my wife's dark eyes do indeed compliment the scenery.

"Let us stop and rest here for a bit," I suggest.

I dismount and walk to Isabella, taking the reins from her and guiding both horses to secure them to one of the many trees. When I am done, I reach up and assist my wife off her mare. Yet, when her feet touch the ground, I do not remove my hands.

She gazes up at me, resting her hands on my forearms and making no attempt to leave my hold. Her eyes sweep over the landscape almost nervously.

"I have not yet been this far."

"I told you there are places easier reached on horseback."

Reaching up, I pluck a blossom from the lowest branch and slip it between Isabella's silky curls. She looks up at me again.

"Thank you," she murmurs. "'Tis a pretty sort of bloom – pink and white."

"You do know what these are, Isabella, do you not?"

"They are flowers."

A hearty chuckle escapes me.

"Why do you laugh?"

I take her by the shoulders and gently spin her around.

"Look carefully, wife. They are _apple_ blossoms."

"Apple blossoms? This is an apple orchard?"

"Yes," I grin.

"Is it yours?"

"It is _ours_. Come late summer, you shall be mistress of thousands of apples, with which you shall be able to make my apple cake, apple pie, apple crumble, etcetera, etcetera."

She turns back to me, her eyes searching mine. "Wheat fields, corn fields, orchards, woods full of game. You are richer in land than you first suggested, Edward."

" _We_ are rich in land."

She stares at me, frowning.

"What is wrong?"

"I just wonder…where it all goes."

The smile I have been sporting since our arrival to the orchards withers. With a heavy sigh, I look away from her and into the bloom-filled horizon. She does not take the hint.

"You… _we_ have a large house and a good number of tenants, yet 'tis still more than needed for them. What happens to the rest?"

My jaw squares, mouth set in a tight line, all which should be a further warning.

"As I know you are a patriot, I suspect you do not trade with England as we are required-"

"Isabella," I exhale, removing my hat and raking a hand through my hair. Then, blowing out a long gust of air, I take her hand. "If you must hear this, let us sit for it."

Once we are seated on the dewy grass, I exhale yet again.

"You are correct that we do not trade with England. Until a few years ago, we did trade with the Crown for a price they deemed fair."

"And you did not deem it fair?"

"Whether we did or not was irrelevant. The price was set."

"And so, you thought smuggling would yield a better price, but it is illegal, Edward."

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself into silence until I can reply with the composure my wife deserves.

"Last year, when General Gage was appointed military governor of Boston, he had his army seal the Boston ports."

"Yes, in retaliation for the dumping of the tea," she says pointedly. "We have discussed this, Edward. 'Twas not their property to dump. Had Boston simply paid for the tea-"

"First of all, Bostonians were not the only ones responsible for the dumping of the tea. It was many of us, from more than just Massachusetts Colony."

Her eyes widen. "You were involved in that crime, Edward?"

"Secondly, General Gage's plan was to starve all of Boston into submission."

"You have ignored my question, but no, Edward," she shakes her head, "Boston was in no true danger. General Gage would not have starved them," she decries. "He simply aimed to teach the rebels a lesson: that criminal action is unacceptable in a civilized society so that such would not occur again."

"A civilized society? Is that what you call it?" I sneer incredulously. At her wary expression, I curse myself internally and proceed more evenly. "Isabella, Boston was indeed in danger. Had we and others throughout the colonies not diverted much of our crop yield, the hunger would have been widespread. A year of closed ports, Isabella," I shake my head, "'twas no longer a lesson, but vengeance. Natural rights were suspended indefinitely. Subservience was demanded while children begged in the streets. Horses like your nameless mare were denied something as simple as hay and left to die. Had we allowed Boston to fall, what vengeance began there would have spread throughout all the colonies. And where would it have stopped? At what point would King George have decided the lesson was learned? What would have been the next lesson, the next punishment for whatever future insubordinate act of ours he and Parliament deemed unacceptable in a _civilized_ society?"

The entire time, she shakes her head in denial. "No. It cannot be, Edward. You are wrong," she insists, fisting her hands and digging them into the grass, her body tense and rigid. "Father allowed me to read the daily broadsheets. The rebels were defiant and _violent_ , cursing the Crown and throwing objects at the soldiers, at men like my father, who only meant to keep the peace between us all!"

"Hunger and cruel treatment tend to make one violent and defiant, yes."

"Edward, your seditious pamphlets were full of lies!"

I cannot immediately respond, for if I do, I may strangle her.

"Isabella." I sigh heavily. "Isabella, I was there. I saw it all with my own eyes."

"You _saw_ it?"

I nod slowly. "Everything I have described to you came not from patriot pamphlets nor from loyalist broadsheets. 'Twas what I saw when I _smuggled_ in food for a starving colony."

She is silent, her eyes wide, and her breaths shallow. And as wrong as it is of me, I am glad for her reaction.

"Late last year, after the coercive acts were enacted, delegates from each of our colonies met in Philadelphia to determine how best to address King George regarding our grievances. New Jersey colony sent five delegates, of which my father was one."

She gasps and covers her mouth.

"Together, they drafted a petition requesting Parliament remove these intolerable acts, to reopen the ports in Boston, to lift martial law from Massachusetts and return it to its governing autonomy, to withdraw the act which allowed families like the Smythes here in Freehold to be removed forcibly from their own homes to quarter soldiers and their families at whim."

When she drops her gaze to the grass, her small shoulders sagging as if she has been defeated, all my anger at her leaves me in one breath.

"Had the King and Parliament agreed to work with us then…we would have paid for the damn tea. Instead, they refused, and it all continued, Isabella," I say, only then realizing I have yanked up patches of grass all around me and hold it fisted between my palms. "And so, our fight must continue as well."

For a long while, there is silence between us. When she speaks, she whispers so softly I miss the first, few words and must strain to hear the rest.

"…know people were starving. Had I known... I never asked to be taken from my home in New York, to be quartered here in another family's home. I had my own home. I did not think…" She snorts. "I did not… _think_."

My heart clenches. In one motion, I reach for my wife and pull her onto my lap, cradling her face as I lift her eyes to mine. The pain and confusion in them spear right through me.

"Isabella, listen to me. I am glad you did not stay in New York," I whisper vehemently. She tries to pull away. " _No_." I tighten my hold on her. "You are no longer in another family's home. You are in your home...you are in _our_ home."

She looks at me the way she sometimes does, appearing so lost, so innocent.

"I did not mean to upset you by telling you about these things."

"Yes, you did." She smiles sadly.

"I did not."

"You did, Edward. You truly did."

I swallow thickly as we hold one another's gaze. Eventually, she takes a deep breath, and gone is the lost, innocent look. When she speaks, there is a hard edge to her voice.

"You said I could visit Father today."

I search her eyes, for there is something in them I cannot decipher.

"You shall," I nod slowly. "We shall go to town this afternoon."

OOOOOOOOOO

We return the horses to the stables and head for the house. The easy companionship which had begun developing between us this early morning now feels like a thing of the distant past. I curse myself for about the hundredth time since we married, for I wonder if I will ever truly make this woman happy?

It is as I think this troublesome thought that Isabella reaches and wraps her arm around mine, smiling up at me.

"Do not brood as you tend to do."

"You were right. I am glad what I told you upset you, but it does not follow I enjoy making you unhappy."

She drops her gaze. "At this moment, I am not unhappy."

I can no longer deny to myself the relief I feel, the _need_ for this woman's true affection. Squeezing her arm tightly against my side, we proceed the rest of the way still in silence, but more at ease. Yet, when we enter the house, she begins to disentangle herself.

"I shall go above stairs and change. Please let me know when you are ready to leave for town."

As she begins to walk off, I grab her hand. "Come into the dining hall and break your fast with us."

She smiles. "You know I cannot, but thank you."

"Isabella, you are my wife. Of course, you can. I have got rid of Duncan, the old fool until he is ready to apologize for the offense to _you_ , not to me. No one else here shall begrudge your presence, I assure you."

"Edward-"

At that moment, Rosalie enters the room.

"Good morning to you both," she smiles. "We were beginning to think you had ridden straight to Quebec."

"A good morning, Mrs. McCarty," Isabella replies sedately.

"How is your new mare, Mrs. Cullen?"

Isabella's smile widens. "She is lovely. She was a wonderful surprise…a wonderful gift from my husband."

"I am glad," Rosalie replies. "She shall hopefully provide many hours of diverting entertainment." Her mouth twitches. Then, she clasps her hands. "Well, shall we? We have been waiting."

Isabella's dark eyes flash to me. "I shall withdraw to our chambers."

"No, Isabella."

"Nonsense, Mrs. Cullen-" Rosalie stops and shakes her head. "Oh, this is ridiculous. May I call you _Isabella_?"

"Of course."

"Very good. And you shall call me _Rosalie_. Now, come into your dining hall, Isabella." She turns and leads the way as I squeeze my wife's hand encouragingly. "We are very hungry, and I cannot promise you my husband has left you any oatcakes, but Mrs. Clearwater has not allowed him to finish the scrapple, which she has kept warm."

OOOOOOOOOO

The weight which had begun to lift from my chest this morning makes a heavy return in the afternoon. As soon as we enter town, the tension in the air is almost palpable. We ride the carriage past the common, where soldiers from the Captain's regiment now patrol openly, ignoring the hateful glares by some as well as the grateful stares from others. Every day, Freehold Township becomes a place more divided.

James marches in perfect formation with a musket over his shoulder – that is until I see his eyes espy my wife. His stumble is almost imperceptible as his gaze quickly shifts to me. Then, surprise quickly turns to fury. He glares at me hatefully before looking away.

It does not fill me with calm, not at all as I walk my wife to the door of the Smythe home, where Captain Swan and his household are in residence. I requested a note be sent this morning alerting him his daughter would be paying a visit. So, as the door is opened by a footman, and we are led into the hall, Captain Swan appears before he can be called.

I suppose I cannot deny the equal parts excitement and relief, albeit contained, which are clear in his expression as he envelops Isabella in his embrace. For a few seconds, they say nothing. Then, he pulls her away.

"Are you well?"

"I am well, Father, I thank you."

He nods slowly, his mouth now in a tight line, his mustache unmoving. Almost unwillingly, he looks up at me.

"Thank you for bringing her."

'Tis obvious how difficult the words are for him. It is equally as difficult for me to accept his gratitude and to know I must leave her here with him, even if just for a short while. The knowledge that we have not consummated our marriage consumes me, makes me fear 'tis etched on my forehead and on hers. I find myself wishing we would not have been interrupted this morning, wishing I would have stormed into the chamber this afternoon as she changed and simply lifted her skirts, thrust into her, and to hell with all.

I force a nod. "I have business to attend at the tavern. I shall return for my wife in a couple of hours."

The captain nods curtly in return."I have heard whispers that the business to which you attend in the tavern is not entirely of the legal variety. Perhaps one of these days I shall search it."

"Father, stop."

"Perhaps one of these days I shall allow it," I sneer.

"Edward."

"However, at this moment, I am entrusting the care of _my_ wife to you, Captain Swan, and as you said to me the last time we met, I should hope she is your priority."

"A good day to you, Mr. Cullen," he hisses, dismissing me.

"A good day to you, Captain. Nevertheless, I have two conditions before I entrust my wife to your care."

At this, the Captain verily vibrates with rage. His nostrils flare, the air which blows out of them setting his mustache a'twitching.

"How dare you? You have no right to set any conditions regarding-"

"I have _every_ right, sir, as you well know. I do not want Ensign Pitman anywhere near my wife. That is the first condition. If he is allowed in this house while she is here, she will not return. The second is that with tensions in town being what they are, I do not want my wife wandering about it without _me_."

"Edward!" Isabella snaps tempestuously.

"Isabella," I say, firmly holding her gaze, "I only set directives for your protection."

My chest heaves while I await her response. Finally, she nods tightly.

"I shall return for you in a couple of hours."

A fissure of fear suddenly runs up my spine, so badly it takes all my strength not to drag her out of the house, whether she kick or scream in protest.

"I shall be here," she replies.

Sliding my hand around her neck, I lean in and press my mouth to her forehead, squeezing my eyes shut for a few seconds.

"Be safe," I say before I pull away and command my legs to carry me to the door.

"Edward!" she calls out.

I turn back to her anxiously. "Yes, Isabella?"

"Hope," she says with a smile. "I shall name my mare... _Hope_."

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**

 **Today is my littlest baby's 13th birthday. I'm feeling wistful. Just thought I'd mention it. *shrugs***

 **See you guys soon! Have a great weekend.**


	11. Ch 11 - The Incident on the Ride Home

**A/N: Thank you so much for all your wonderful thoughts, and thank you so much, guys, for your wonderful wishes for my little girl's birthday! She had a great weekend. :)**

 **A couple of you have asked if I'm only going to update this story once a week from here on in. Unfortunately, at least for now, that's likely the case. It's the holidays, and that's always such a busy time of year around the PattyRosa household! But, we'll see what happens in the future.**

 **Some characters belong to S. Meyer, some belong to history, and some (like the little mare, Hope) belong to me. :)**

 **Chapter 11 – The Incident on the Ride Home**

* * *

 **Isabella Swan Cullen**

My husband is quite silent on the carriage ride back to his- to _our_ home from Freehold's main square. He faces forward, yet I see his eyes casting about, prodigiously aware of our surroundings – the town shops we pass, the people...the soldiers. Everything looks the same as last time I was in town before I was a married woman, yet 'tis also all different. Apparently, 'twas not only my life which was forever altered on that fateful night less than a fortnight ago.

At this time of eve, most of the merchant shops are shuttered. Many of them appear to have been shut for more than just a few hours. There are a handful we pass which have large 'Ls' or 'Ts' painted in black upon their doors – 'L' for Loyalist, or 'T' for Tory, or as they see us, liars and traitors.

Among many of the things which Father told me during our short visit this afternoon is that some of our friends have begun leaving New Jersey for New York. A few even plan to sail to England. What's more, many of those among us who once purported to be merely _disaffected_ have proven to be angry patriots, whose true affiliations now shine through with what occurred in Lexington and Concord. They have destroyed property, brawled in the square, and cursed King George's name to the heavens. Father has allowed much to slide, but those who have committed the more criminal acts he has been forced to imprison and even publicly flog to keep the already unsteady peace.

Perhaps this is why my husband's mien is so dark this eve.

Yet, in spite of what I have recently learned from my husband and what my father has begrudgingly admitted if not regretted, my fists tighten at my sides as indignation courses through me, for I have learned more on this afternoon.

Nevertheless, despite the tensions around us and that roiling within me, my husband's intense gaze does not stray from the road. Underneath the cover of his tricorn, I see how the green in his eyes has darkened with the approaching twilight, his mouth set in a tight line, his angular, rough-hewn jaw so rigid 'tis a perfect square. His Adam's apple is hidden underneath a thick neckcloth, yet every few seconds, the movement caused by his hard swallows make it rise above his stubbled neck.

Strangely enough, I find myself wondering to whom falls the duty of shaving him, for as far as I can tell, it has not been done in a while. Is it Mrs. Clearwater's duty, Leah's, or his own?

 _I_ am quite skilled at shaving a man, as I have shaved my father for the better part of a decade. 'Twas something I picked up when I was very young, in an attempt to make Father laugh after Mother's untimely death. I see now he was bravely indulgent to allow my attempt. Nevertheless, I shaved Father so well it soon became my duty, one which I was perfectly content to fulfill. After all, a high-ranking officer in the King's service cannot appear bristly, no matter how badly he grieves his wife. That is not to say my husband appears disheveled in any way despite the excess facial hair.

An infuriating thought suddenly evolves unbidden. Perhaps…perhaps 'tis none of the above who perform the duty for my husband. Upon the heels of this thought, I see _her_ in my mind – Emmett's tall, voluptuous, and Patriot sister. In my mind's eye, 'tis she who runs a blade tenderly up and down _my_ husband's face, her generous bosom heaving at his eye level while he sits before her displaying all the patience he has not for me.

I am now forced to sit on my fists, else I might be tempted to reach out and strike him.

Indiscreet murmurs and catches of conversation since the night of my hasty nuptials have already alerted me to the fact that Katrina McCarty held hopes of performing _all_ wifely duties for Edward. Perhaps the indignation of being usurped, which has kept her away as of late – for I also know she would visit Cullen House daily – also explains why Edward has not had a shave in a number of days.

Perhaps this also explains why he has not had _me_.

I give my husband a withering, sidelong glance, which he misses. How disappointed he must be, even if their understanding was not yet formalized. _I_ had no such disappointed hopes regarding James. This I made perfectly clear on the morning after my marriage as well as earlier today when Edward specifically forbade James' presence before me, and I managed not to object to such high-handedness.

Edward, however, has never spoken to me of his level of attachment to Miss McCarty. Yes, he was obviously angry at her on that fateful night, when desperation made her suggest something so foul. But just as my husband claims to notice things about me, I have noticed he has a tendency to act before he completely thinks. He quickly rebuked her and married me. Nonetheless, his silence on the subject of Miss McCarty, as well as how utterly – and perhaps purposely – blind he was to the likely part she played in our premature discovery, makes me suspect there was disappointment on his part indeed.

Swallowing back the bile of fury rising higher within me, I give my head a shake to rid it of these thoughts. Meanwhile, he appears not to have noted a thing other than the dirt road now before us.

For a couple of seconds, as I watch him and his strikingly green eyes, I create another image within my mind. In this image, Edward sits on a chair situated before the window in our chambers, the window from where I often watch the sun descending the hill and leaving the room awash with its final rays. In this image, 'tis I who has lathered his rough face with soap. As I take in the sight of him, all I see are his strikingly green eyes – and of course, the hint of a smirk almost always 'round his mouth. Then, I take the straight blade and smooth it down his face, past his jaw and further to his neck.

" _Do not cut me, wife," he teases._

" _I would_ _ **never**_ _hurt you, husband. Do you not know this yet?"_

Over and over I repeat the process, with the warmth of his breath upon my face and the warmth of his skin beneath my hand. After every couple of strokes, I rinse the blade in the bowl of warm water atop our dresser. When I am done, dark copper whiskers are gone, and all that remains is the handsome face of _my_ husband. The block of alum which rests near the bowl is not necessary, for I have not nicked him once. When I stroke his jaw and cheeks to ensure a job well done, his skin is smooth yet still pleasantly rough to the touch. And as he grabs my hand and pulls me to straddle his lap, his strikingly green eyes are aflame with desire for _me_.

" _Come here, my love."_ He says this not as a general appellation.

" _I am here, Edward._ _ **Why**_ _do you not see I am here?"_

The furious bile has dissipated, yet the emptiness in its wake is no better.

At times in the past fortnight, when I have found myself alone in my new bed in my new chambers, I have wished I never allowed my inane curiosity on Mr. Cullen and his secrets to get the better of me. I would still be Isabella Swan, beloved daughter, instead of Isabella Cullen, unwanted interloper.

Yet, last eve, as I felt myself grow increasingly content and drowsy in his arms, as he held me so tightly within them, I found myself wondering: even had I known the consequences of my actions, would it have stopped me? And this morn…

Edward's ensuing question snaps me out of my musings.

"Are you well, Isabella?"

"I am well, thank you."

"Another thing I have noted of my wife: she bites her bottom lip when she is lost in thought." He smiles, though his eyes still remain front and center. "I simply wonder what could have her that way."

"Conversation usually requires more than one active participant to be carried on, Edward," I reply. "And you have been just as introspective as I on this ride."

He does not reply immediately.

"You are correct. There are more than a few issues plaguing my thoughts this eve, and in an attempt to be a better husband, I shall share a couple of them. Firstly, I am concerned for Jasper."

"Concerned for Jasper? Why?"

"No one has seen or heard from him since two nights ago." Edward frowns darkly. "'Tis not like him to disappear in this manner." He is once more silent before he takes a breath and gives me a side-long glance. "Perhaps even more than that, however, I am nervous about why you are so silent, about what your father may have said to you today."

"Or do you mean you fear what _I_ may have said to him about your plotting and planning?"

At this, he does turn to look at me, with green eyes now blazing like a woodland fire. For a few seconds, they trap me within their furious heat. When he returns his eyes to the road, I release the breath I had been holding.

When he speaks, he makes obvious effort to keep an even tone.

"That is not what I meant, _wife_. Be assured had I had any qualms whatsoever on that front, I would have _never_ allowed you to spend time alone with your father."

A mixture of both resentment and remorse coil around my throat, for I have insulted him, yet he insults me too by continuously reminding me of why I was not meant to be his wife. Even as I open my mouth to respond, I know not which one has reached my tongue first: added insult or apology.

"My father has offered to send me to family in England, and I tell you this not to further antagonize you, Edward, but to apprise you of this option."

'Tis neither insult nor apology, for I have seen what a man and a woman in love look like. My father is a reserved Englishman, yet he could not help but smile in my mother's presence. When he believed no one watched, I would see him brush his fingers against my mother's cheek. In turn, even when in company, Mother's beautiful eyes constantly sought him out. And…and stolen kisses between them, ones I was likely never meant to see, still burn in my mind.

When I first beheld Edward in that assembly, despite the scowl on his handsome face, 'twas the first time in my life I pictured myself sharing those types of stolen kisses. Yet, it infuriated me as much as it bewildered me, for I had never believed myself the type vulnerable to romantic enraptures such as those which plagued many of my friends of similar age and standing, whom were capable of no thoughts beyond those of marriage and the marriage bed. However, the night in the cellar, when Edward did kiss me, I allowed myself to believe that perhaps…perhaps…

Perhaps, this is exactly the type of union which I stole from Edward.

In the meanwhile, Edward's handsome features have suddenly turned into stone. I force myself to continue.

"Edward, you married me to keep me from speaking of what I saw and to keep me from danger, and I married you to keep myself and my father from harm." I swallow past the partial lie. "But I have proven I will never speak to anyone of what I know of you or your friends. As for my safety, in England, I shall be far from anyone who wishes me harm. And as for my father's safety, with what occurs in these colonies, I begin to believe only time may ensure it."

Still, he does not reply. Instead, his breathing appears to have sped up and grown shallower.

"What is more…" a series of uneven sighs escape me, "what is more, we have not consummated our union, and although my father does not know the truth of that matter, he assures me that in England, no prospective suitor would need know about my previous marriage or of the supposed loss of my virtue."

By this point, Edward breathes so heavily I can not only hear it, but I feel his breaths all along the side of my body which rests beside him. 'Tis a distracting sensation, even as I watch his grip on the reins tighten to the point where his bones appear to protrude from his skin.

"And so, your father would have you not only lie about the state of your maidenhood as he believes it, but commit bigamy, for I shall not release you from our union."

"You would keep me out of spite, Edward?"

Here, he erupts.

"Out of spite? You dare call _me_ spiteful when you sit here speaking of marrying another! I thought-" Promptly shutting his mouth and his eyes, he draws in a breath and releases it slowly. When he reopens both, he at least sounds more composed even if he does not actually appear it. "Isabella, today I felt we were…this morning on our ride, this afternoon when you said you would name the mare _Hope_ …I believed it all meant something."

"It did mean something, but you should be allowed a choice, Edward," I say, forcing my own voice to remain steady. "The way our union occurred…" I drop my stinging gaze to my lap before I break, "well, it must have devastated your previous hopes."

At this, he completely halts the carriage, so abruptly my back hits the seat behind me.

"What previous hopes, Isabella?"

I feel his gaze bore into me, yet I keep my own eyes cast downward. Then, I feel his rough fingers on my chin as he forces me to look at him.

"Isabella, of what previous hopes do you speak?"

I hold his gaze steadily yet silently, for I am not sure I can speak with any modicum of composure. Yet, he will not release me. Instead, he cages my face in between his strong hands, firmly enough so that I cannot turn away from him.

"Isabella, tell me this very instant of what previous hopes you speak!"

"I know you had an understanding with Katrina McCarty!" I exclaim furiously. "James told-"

"James!" he howls, his eyes flashing with thunderous outrage. "Damnation, when did you see James? I warned your father-"

"I did not see James! Do not worry, your edict was not disregarded, but James did inform Father of your relationship with Katrina, of how you had no right to _seek me out_ ," I sneer sardonically, for we both know that is not how it occurred, "when you were expected to marry Miss McCarty within the year!"

" _What_?" he spits.

"Further, he told Father how you continuously disparaged me the night of the assembly, how you made your negative views on me perfectly clear to him. Your thoughts on me and my level of intelligence _I_ already knew," I shrug, feigning indifference, "but my father did not. You see, he hoped I was at least respected in this union he already cannot fathom. And so, I am sure you can also see, regardless of how much you may despise my father for his political views, why he is beside himself with worry for me. And with all which occurs, I do not need him distracted by concern regarding a union which is not real, and which I now see…" I pause until I am confident I can continue without my voice quivering weakly, "which I now see has never had any hope of being so."

For a long while, Edward says nothing. He merely holds my face as if his hands are frozen around it.

"Setting aside James and his gossip mongering for now, is this what you want, Isabella?" he eventually asks, his tone disturbingly calm. "Do you want to be released from this _mock_ union, to sail away to England where you may set me and all memories of me aside, where you may meet a noble, young lord and become his maiden wife? Do you want to put behind you all which has occurred this past fortnight, relegate it to a nightmare from which you were fortunate to wake unscathed? Do you want to set aside all which has occurred since we first laid eyes on one another at that assembly?"

I swallow thickly, locked in his dark, impassive gaze.

"Is that what you call giving me a choice, Isabella?"

"I…I…"

I cannot reply, and as I sit there with my tongue tied, Edward searches my eyes, his rigid hold forbidding me from looking away.

Then, in one fluid motion, he releases his hold on me and turns. Once more taking up the reins, he snaps the horses into a gallop. The shock of it makes me reach blindly for purchase, one hand on his thigh and the other gripping the side rail for dear life.

"Edward, what do you do?"

He does not reply.

My heart races, for I have no idea what is occurring. I fist the material of his breeches, and at this speed, we are on Cullen property before my imagination may run too wild. Only vaguely do I note that the sun is at half descent behind the woods, the sky as on fire as my husband is as he lunges from the carriage and swiftly stalks to my side. With no preamble or finesse, he wraps his hands around my waist and pulls me down.

"I have her in hand, Jacob, thank you," he barks when Jacob approaches. "Please take care of the carriage and horses, and good evening to you."

"Good evening, Jacob," I say breathlessly, unable to land a curtsy or even receive Jacob's own greeting before Edward grabs my hand and whisks me swiftly toward the house. I must resort to picking up my skirts with my free hand to keep from tripping.

"What are you doing, Edward?" I hiss in a whisper. "You are embarrassing me, and I wanted to see my mare one last time!"

His nostrils flare, but he does not reply.

Upon our entry in the main hall, Mrs. Clearwater greets us with a warm smile.

"Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Cullen. Supper is ready and waiting. Shall I serve it in the dining hall?"

His furious pace does not even slow as he replies. "Thank you, Mrs. Clearwater, but my wife and I shall not be dining this evening."

Unable to speak through my bewilderment, I merely manage to meet Mrs. Clearwater's confused gaze before Edward leads me up the staircase. His hands once more wrap around my waist as he half pushes and half carries me.

"Edward, stop this! You are behaving boorishly!"

We reach the landing, where again he takes my hand and pulls me toward our chambers. When he pushes open the door, Leah is within. She has lit the candles and the fire in the hearth and is now turning down the bed linens for the evening. Upon our entry, she commences a curtsy.

"Good evening, Mr. and-"

"Leah, the mistress and I shall not need you further tonight. What's more, whoever disturbs us this eve shall do so at their own peril, and in the morning, ensure you knock before you enter."

My face burns. Poor Leah is once more left unknowing whether to look at us or at the walls, whether to finish her curtsy or stand, or even whether to speak. She ends up doing a strange, hasty amalgamation of all the above.

"Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Cullen. A good night to you both." Verily running from the room, she pulls the door shut so anxiously her skirt's hem becomes caught, and she must reopen the door to pull it out.

Alone in the room with Edward, I am seething. In this furious manner, I round on my husband.

"That was the most embarrassing display of which I have ever been a part! The poor girl shall be forever scarred!"

Removing his tricorn, Edward flings it halfway across the room and begins stalking darkly toward me. He grabs my shoulders and pushes me backward.

"What are you doing?" I demand.

"You want to speak of choices? Very well, Isabella, we shall speak of choices."

When the back of my knees hit the bed, my legs fold, and I land on my seat heavily. Edward then kneels before me, his hands splaying across my legs. My breath catches, and when I look up at him, he is watching me through a fiery gaze.

"That night in the cellar, I had no choice."

"But you should have had one," I say, my voice trembling despite myself. "I can no longer do this, Edward. I cannot keep you from what you truly desire. I cannot keep you from your fight to build a nation when you are so passionate about it, nor can I keep you when I know you originally wanted another as wife."

"Isabella…" He shakes his head. "Please answer me one question, just one. Do _you_ want to be released from this union?"

Again, I drop my eyes to my lap, wringing my hands, for I can no longer look at him. 'Tis heartbreaking enough those green eyes shall haunt me, in New York, in England, everywhere for the rest of my days.

"I want to give you back your choices."

"Maddening woman, that is not an answer!" He exhales heavily, his breath washing against my collarbone and making me shiver. Then, with a gentleness in complete contrast to his outburst, he places a finger under my chin and again guides my eyes to his. "Very well, answer another question then: _why_ do you return to me?"

My brow furrows in confusion.

"Isabella, you have had plenty of opportunities to free yourself from this union. The morning after we wed, you could have easily told your father I had not bedded you. He would have shot me and easily taken you back. I have allowed you to roam the house and the grounds freely, during which you could have run off at any time. Today, you were safely back in your father's house. If he offered to send you to England, I am sure he was prepared for the battle he knew would ensue if you accepted, for I would not have given you up without a fight. He was likely also prepared to have you whisked off to New York before I even got wind of what was occurring." As he says this, a visible shudder runs through him. "So, _why_ do you return to me?"

"I do not always understand what keeps me here. At times…at times I have believed, I have _hoped_ we would be able to make this work. But now…" Despite his firm hold on my chin, I shake off his fingers and look away.

"Isabella, look at me."

"I cannot."

"I shall not force your eyes to me anymore. I want you to look at me of your own accord, for I have something of great import to tell you."

Slowly, I sweep my eyes back to his.

"Isabella…my beautiful, intelligent, maddening, hellion girl," he smiles, "I had no other choice in that cellar."

"I am so very sorry I snuck into your tavern and took away your choices," I reply in a strangled whisper.

He wraps his hands around my face, and when he speaks, his voice is as shaky as mine.

"Listen to me, my beloved wife. I had no choice that night in the cellar because the moment I asked a Tory woman to dance at the assembly, my choice was already made. You should know me well enough by now to comprehend the import of such an action, although; I shall admit I am only beginning to realize it myself."

Against all my wishes and efforts, I choke on an errant sob.

"James told Father that Katrina holds your heart, that you only seduced and married me to wound him after a falling out between you both." I snort. "And while I know these latter two be not the case-"

" _None_ of it be the case," he breathes fervently. "Katrina holds no part of me, Isabella."

"Is it true you had an understanding with her, whether formalized or not?"

"There was no understanding between us. I never offered her anything."

"Perhaps you did not offer, but perhaps you took something from her, something which gave her the impression you would be offering."

He shakes his head and replies with surprising patience, for I know men generally do not stand for such questions from a wife.

"I never laid with her, if that is what you imply. We…we shared a few kisses, yes, but nothing more." He takes my hands and weaves his fingers through mine. "Listen to me, Isabella Cullen: I have no disappointed hopes, no romantic entanglements which my marriage to you forced me to abandon. My only disappointed hopes would result from waking up one day without _you_ as my wife."

I detest myself at that moment, for I begin crying in earnest. Thankfully, my husband knows me well enough by now not to comment on such despicable weakness. Instead, lifting our joined hands, he gently and silently wipes away all my insuppressible tears.

"'Twas not planned, this union between us, no. Perhaps it makes little sense. Perhaps 'tis even dangerous. But I want no other woman in my life, in my bed, or by my side."

"Then _why_ have you not taken me?"

His head jerks back as if I have shocked him, which I suppose I have, for women, I know, are not expected to speak of such things. Then, he chuckles.

"My wife. You are so straightforward. You keep me guessing all the time. How can a man fight against such a wondrous woman? Isabella, I have not taken you because first I wanted to be sure you trusted me."

"How could I not trust you when you stood between your friends and me to keep them from feeding me to the wolves? And I am _here_ , Edward. As you said yourself, here I have remained."

He swallows thickly, and for a long minute, he simply holds my gaze. Then, with another long breath, my husband drops his head to my lap and wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me closer.

"Isabella, I have made such a muddle of this."

I snort. "We both have, but fortunately, we are already married."

His soft chuckle reverberates through my legs. "Yes, my love," he murmurs fervently, not as a general appellation. "Yes, we are married, and married we shall remain."

For an endless moment, we remain there with his arms wrapped tightly around me. Then, tentatively, I give in to my need and allow my hand to roam through his thick mane of copper locks. 'Tis long and wonderfully soft. Edward releases a long, contented sigh, and so I continue freely raking my fingers through his scalp.

"Your touch is amazing," he breathes. Turning his head, he begins brushing his lips to my covered legs, ghosting them to and fro, and I feel their burn to my very core.

"Edward," I murmur.

When he looks up at me, I give him a tender smile.

"I had no choice either. _That_ is why I return to you."

The joy which infuses his handsome face is to me brighter than any sunrise, even lovelier than those I have come to enjoy viewing from my new home…from _our_ home.

'Tis nonsensical, yes, but I know now I fell in love with Edward Cullen, irrefutable patriot, the moment I laid eyes on him. I had no choice in the matter, as I have no choice now, for no one shall disturb us this eve. Edward has thoroughly ensured it. I find I am absolutely fine with it, because more than anything in this world, I want this last choice _finally_ taken from me…by no one other than my beloved husband.

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **So, will they be interrupted this time? We shall see! (Come on, I'm not** _ **that**_ **mean). ;)**

 **I fervently wish all of you a WONDERFUL Thanksgiving, including those not in the U.S. who don't officially celebrate the holiday. After all, no matter where we are in the world, there's still so much for which to be thankful. :)**

 **And eat lots of turkey and pecan pie! (I know I will).**

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	12. Incident in Mr & Mrs Cullen's Chambers

**A/N: Thank you all so much for your wonderful thoughts.**

 **Hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving!**

 **Some characters belong to S. Meyer, some belong to me, and some belong to history.**

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 **Chapter 12 - The Incident in Mr. and Mrs. Cullen's Chambers**

 **Isabella Cullen**

"Are you frightened, Isabella?"

My husband strokes my leg soothingly, his voice calming, all of it meant to alleviate my trepidations regarding what we both know is to come.

I merely offer him a smile, for I have always been the sort who finds a measure of exhilaration in unusual circumstances. With this admission, I shall also add that being of this type has, on occasion, placed me and those around me in unfortunate situations.

For example, there was the governess who could never find me. Whenever she did manage to locate me, I was invariably locked in Father's library reading his top-shelf books or visiting the kitchens to converse with the staff below stairs – abundantly more interesting than the staff above stairs. And yes, more than once, I was caught listening in at doors. It took this governess less than a half year to decide her handsome salary was insufficient compensation to cope with such a charge.

Then, there was the governess who had the misfortune of finding Alice and me in my chambers one afternoon, exploring those soft, new parts which accompany a young girl's first bloom into adulthood. Even worse, we wondered aloud why these new parts tingled so when touched by hands not our own. Unsure as to whether she should swoon or run out of my chambers, the horrified governess chose the latter. She would have been better off swooning, for Father's solution was to relieve the poor woman of her suffering by relieving her of her position.

There was also the governess who had perhaps the most challenging job of all: that of convincing Father 'twas not her fault she lost me near the statue of King George in lower Manhattan's bowling green. Father's outrage was exacerbated by the fact that, by this point in time, rebellious patriots protested around and vandalized the statue almost daily. The governess did not succeed in her attempt to acquit herself of the blame. However, as I was already fifteen, she did succeed in being the last of my governesses.

'Twas not only governesses who had to deal with my boldness. Yet, most individuals, especially those who ranked below Father in both the military and in society, limited their disapproval to covertly raised eyebrows.

So yes, having been left motherless young had left me a both bold and indulged child. Nevertheless, 'twould be inaccurate to assume further that my father was utterly oblivious to the perils of my curious nature. There were "talks" between us for which I was periodically sat should I be tempted to make such an assumption.

" _Isabella, I know you are of an inquisitive nature, and I do enjoy our conversations while in private. However, while in public, you must keep your thoughts to yourself. Those of our society do not appreciate intelligence in a young girl."_

" _Father, I shall endeavor to show apathy before those of our society as much as possible."_

Unfortunately, as I grew older, these talks of slight reprimand occurred with increasing frequency, with increasing limits, and at least on my part, with increasing cynicism toward expectations for my future.

" _Isabella, I am aware here in the colonies women tend to headstrongness more than in the mother country. However, always remember_ _ **you**_ _are an Englishman's daughter, and thereby a full daughter of the Crown. Moreover, now that you are of marrying age, you must endeavor to curb your impulsiveness, for it is not a characteristic a true gentleman tends to value in a wife."_

" _In that case, Father, I shall be as docile as the swans for which we are named. For heaven forfend my general curiosity of the world limit my chances of attracting a_ _ **true**_ _gentleman."_

And so, I seemed fated to a marriage much like those I'd observed all my life, for even between Mother and Father, any moments of genuine tenderness occurred only behind the privacy of closed doors. I would be required to submit without issue. I would be expected to stifle any curiosity until it withered away. And my biggest thrills would come from the uncertainty of a game of ninepins.

Then, came the assembly in the wilds of New Jersey, where I met a young, colonial farmer who openly scowled at _me_ – primitive colony, indeed. Yet, for what felt like the first time in years, possibly for the first time ever, I found myself breathing in public. I spoke my thoughts. I displayed my impulsivity. And as this young farmer and I danced, my body quaked with the most exhilarating of thrills. What's more, through some convoluted twist of fate, this man became my husband.

And now, he is knelt before me attempting to quell what he believes to be my apprehensions.

"I am not at all frightened, Edward."

His bewitching green eyes appear to widen. I suppose I have shocked him yet again, for what maiden is not frightened before she loses her maidenhead? Nevertheless, I am no longer so concerned about shocking him, for I believe…I believe Father, as much as I love and respect him, has been wrong about more than one thing.

When my husband grips my hips between his strong hands and begins a back and forth stroking motion along the length of my thighs, all thoughts of Father abandon me. All the while, Edward's eyes remain fixed on mine. And though his hands stay above my skirts, I feel their burn through every layer of rich material.

"I am glad," he murmurs, "for I never want you frightened by me or by anything we shall do together."

I lift a brow. "I have been taught a husband prefers a timid, malleable wife."

At this, he chuckles heartily, squeezing my thighs all the more. "Perhaps some do, but I have known that timid and malleable you are not since the moment I first laid eyes on you, regardless of how well you fooled others. And since I have confessed to deciding from my very first sighting of you that no other woman would do for me, I suppose I must learn to tolerate your bold, obstinate ways."

"I do not know whether I should kiss you or slap you for such a speech."

Indeed, I aim to kiss him.

He laughs wholeheartedly, a sound to which my heart has learned to respond by beating all the quicker. And when he moves in closer and angles his head upward, mouth so close to mine I feel his every breath on my cheeks, that same heart has learned to come to a complete standstill.

"No, Isabella, _I_ do not tend toward the timid and malleable sort."

"That is good," I whisper as his mouth inches forward, "for I do not do timid and malleable well."

"I have noticed," he agrees.

My eyes flutter closed as he sighs into my mouth, and his lips mold around mine so perfectly. Only vaguely do I hold the thought that perhaps…perhaps I am somewhat malleable for _him_.

"Edward..."

His name expels itself like heady gossamer between us, yet in spite of the sound's relative weakness, there must be something potent in it, for my husband's reaction is a guttural groan. It reverberates like thunder throughout my entire body. In one fluid motion, Edward lifts himself off his knees and wraps his arms around my shoulders, pushing me onto my back and our bed.

I am not frightened.

I respond to him as I always have: openly and instinctively, by wrapping my arms around his shoulders and pulling him closer so that his hard body lands atop mine. Then, I proceed to meet his hunger with my own, for I shall not deny I have craved him in ways I do not even fully comprehend.

"Oh, Isabella…"

Our kisses are wild and frenzied as his mouth moves everywhere all at once. When it trails downward, I arch upward.

"Edward…yes…"

"Isabella…"

Now, he moans my name almost as if he is in pain, yet I know he is not. With much more languidness and care, Edward returns to my mouth and slips his tongue between my lips. When my mouth opens with a gasp, he pushes his tongue in deeper.

He has done this to me once before, in the cellar. Even then, I confess it thrilled me in forbidden ways. Now that he is my husband, he takes his time and teaches my tongue to move with his. All the while, every extremity in my body pulses for him. His tongue is all I feel, all I think, and all I know. When he pulls away, I am quite disoriented.

"What…why…?"

"I cannot remove your garments this way," he explains as breathlessly as I. "Sit, my love."

I am _not_ frightened.

"Oh, yes. My garments."

Quickly, I sit, and Edward fists the sleeves of my gown with determination. He gives them a good tug. When nothing occurs, he lifts his hands to my shoulders and grabs the material there. Naturally, he is again met with resistance as he pulls.

"Edward, why do you pull on my sleeves?"

"Ah, hmm." He frowns, his hands paused at my shoulders, and his eyes roaming the gown as he tilts his head from one side to the other.

"Have you never removed a lady's garments?"

He exhales heavily, his broad shoulders rising and falling in a shrug before he meets my eyes. "I confess I have not." A somewhat sheepish chuckle follows this admission.

"Then how…I do not comprehend how you have done this in the past. Have you merely lifted their skirts?"

He raises one eyebrow. "To whom exactly do you refer, Isabella?"

"Why, to the previous women you have bedded."

My husband stares at me, unblinking. "Isabella, I have never bedded a woman."

I open my mouth, and then I shut it. Then, I open it once more. "Mean you that you are a virgin?"

"Do not sound so horrified, wife." He grins crookedly. "Or does it disappoint you that your husband shall be as inexperienced in this as you?"

He is teasing me, and so I shake my head and smile. "No. No, it does not disappoint me at all. As a matter of fact…"

Then, 'tis I who throws her arms around his shoulders, squealing in an extremely unladylike manner as I push him back onto the mattress and crush my mouth to his. It only takes about two seconds for his shock to wear off, and then his own arms envelop me as he pulls me against his chest and responds to my kisses.

"I am thrilled, Edward! I never thought to marry a man who would be able to share in my wonder of the experience so fully, for he is a virgin as well!"

Edward laughs. "I am glad the news does not disillusion you."

"How can it disillusion me?" I ask, pulling back to hold his gaze. "I thought to be one of many – perhaps the last, but certainly not the first!"

"Keep announcing that fact so loudly. I do not believe the farmers in the next county heard you," he chuckles.

"Edward…you are not the husband for which I was groomed."

My husband gazes at me with eyes full of so much tenderness, my eyes begin to sting. He pushes a hand through my hair and softly caresses my scalp.

"I shall assume you meant that as a compliment," he smiles. "Isabella, my love, we shall be one another's first, last, and _only_." With his hand at my nape, he guides my mouth back to his. This time, however, his kisses are gentle and…reverent.

"Now, sit," he says. As he lifts his back off the mattress, he slides backward until his spine is against the wall, pulling me with him. Then, he situates us so that as he sits on the bed, I am astride him sideways, his hands supporting me by my waist.

"Mrs. Cullen, as I am admittedly a novice at this, 'twill be your job to be my instructor." He announces this with mock gravity. "Please show me how to rid a lady of her garments."

I nod quickly, for I am _not_ frightened.

"Very well, Mr. Cullen. But, I warn you: 'tis not as simple as it sounds. Perhaps in the future, it would be better if you informed me beforehand so that I may prepare."

"Oh no, no, no," he growls. "We shall not be one of those unions where the bedding is scheduled days in advance, with a white card invitation sent 'round stating both parties' preferred particulars as if 'tis all a business transaction." His lips twist in disdain.

I bite my lip to keep from retorting, for he mocks the gentry – but yes, I have heard of it planned in such a way.

"I am confident that with the proper instruction, I shall be an expert at undressing you in no time. After all, how difficult can it be?"

I quirk a brow. "If you say so. Firstly, there are pins on either side of the front, right along here."

Despite our playfulness and the fact that I am not frightened, as I look down at myself and begin removing the pins which fasten my gown, my hands shake.

Edward's large hands quickly cover mine. "May I? Else, I shall never learn."

I merely nod in reply as he turns his attention to the job at hand. When all the straight pins are removed, Edward throws them across the room, where they land on the wood floors with a series of tiny tinkles and pricks.

"I shall need all those again come morning."

"And I shall hunt down every last one," he replies distractedly, infinitely more interested in pushing open my gown than in the scattering of my pins. Yet, when the gown falls open and pools around my waist like a river of silk, he does not seem impressed.

"That did not help reveal much."

I cannot keep from laughing. "You must be patient. There are still a few pieces to go."

"How many, exactly?" he asks with a pronounced frown.

I limit my reply to that question to a short chuckle. "Now, we remove the pins from the stomacher."

Together, Edward and I unfasten the pins holding in place the whale-boned piece of material which flattens the space above my stomach and rests in front of the stays which shape my waist and bosom under my clothing. When the stomacher is loosened, and Edward disposes of it similarly to the items which have preceded it, I am left more exposed, as only my stays and my shift cover my breasts.

"Better," he drawls slowly, seemingly more pleased. Then with curious swiftness, his hands slide around my back, searching for the ties to my stays. "How do we remove this?"

I reach for his hands and guide them to the back of my waist instead.

"Not that yet. Do you not see the petticoat is tied over it? You must untie this first."

"For the love of…" He sucks his teeth, making me chuckle yet again as he works the strings to the petticoat. When it is loose, he is obviously excited to push it past my hips, though it shall go no further while I am sat atop him; so 'tis another piece pooled around us.

Edward groans. "Wait a second." His eyes meet mine accusingly. "There is something else under that petticoat!"

"Of course there is – my under petticoat, and then my shift under that."

"Are you joking me?"

"Edward, have you truly never seen a woman's underclothing?"

"My love, my mother died when I was a young boy. I have no sisters. As I have admitted I have never bedded a woman, the only women left close to me whom I might have ever seen in any form of undress are Mrs. Clearwater and Leah. The former, while I hold in great affection, has always been too old for me to have any interest in spying undressed. The latter, had I ever attempted to spy on, would have resulted in my throttling, for Jacob has been in love with her since we were children."

By the time he concludes this speech, I am laughing so hard I feel as if the stays shall pop off of me and save him the effort. Meanwhile, Edward holds my hips tight and pushes me downward; I assume 'tis to keep me from toppling off of him in my fit of humor.

"Isabella," he groans, "you truly must quit squirming so much while you sit atop me still almost fully dressed, else I shall indeed be reduced to one of those men who simply lifts skirts."

At this, I do fall on the bed in uncontrollable laughter. My husband swiftly follows, silencing my chortles with a long, slow kiss as his body contorts to mine. As he kisses me, he finishes pulling off those pieces of my clothing he has already untied. My gowns are precious to me, yet at the moment, I could not care less about their disregard.

I am breathless when he pulls away, and also momentarily baffled by the sensation of something crawling up my skirts and over my stocking. In the next second, I realize the crawlers are Edward's fingers.

"Think you I jest?" he murmurs as he traces small circles just over my kneecap, where the stocking ends. His lips pull into an undeniably lascivious grin.

"Edward…" A shaky sort of giggle escapes me. "I think you enjoy teasing me."

He snorts. "I sincerely hope no one has been listening at the doors, for they shall wonder indeed what sort of seduction I employ which keeps you so amused."

"So, _seduction_ is your aim here?"

"You little minx," he growls.

Again, he silences my ensuing amusement with his mouth, entwining our tongues in that manner I adore. Meanwhile, his fingers trail higher and higher above my kneecap and to my thigh. My chest heaves harder and harder. When my breath hitches, he pulls away both his mouth from mine and his hand from under my skirts.

"What is wrong?" I ask.

"Absolutely nothing, but now you must tell me what comes next."

"I thought you had decided to simply lift my skirts?"

Slowly, he shakes his head, his gaze searing into mine. "Isabella, you have been my wife for a fortnight, during which time, I have physically ached to make love to you. If I must be honest, I have ached for you much longer. Aye, I am more anxious than you can ever imagine to finally claim you, but I have imagined you under me, completely undressed, and I _shall_ have you naked as I take you for the first time."

This speech does not cause laughter. Moreover, his voice is low and rough, and I swallow thickly, for I am definitely not _very_ frightened.

"Well, the hip pad is untied here in the front," I whisper, for I no longer trust my voice. As I unfasten it, Edward lifts my hips so that I may discard this piece which rests right below the small of my back and assists in accentuating my waist. The proximity makes my breasts rub against his chest. The entire time, his eyes remain on mine.

"And _now_?" he asks through his teeth, sounding almost angry. His eyes darkened by what I may have once confused as fury. Now, instinctively I know, angry and furious he is not.

" _Now_ the stays may be removed. I must sit again so that…"

He nods rapidly and assists me into a sitting position once more, again on his knees before me as he reaches around and searches for the stay's laces. I watch his face, his jaw rigid, his eyes focused. His expression is now one of intense concentration.

"Put your finger through the top set of eyelets and pull," I instruct when he appears to have trouble. "The rest should give in the same manner."

I feel the stays begin to loosen, row by row. When the piece falls between us, Edward pushes it off the bed.

The rise and fall of my chest is now more pronounced, or perhaps I should say, more visible with my stays discarded, for all I have left covering my breasts is my shift. Yet, Edward's eyes remain on mine.

"Now?"

"Now, you may untie the under petticoat."

He unties it and carefully helps me lift myself so that he can discard it with the rest somewhere around the bed. I am now in nothing but my shift.

'Tis not the first time I am in bed with my husband in nothing more than a shift. I slept with him last evening while in only my bed shift. But, that one is made of heavier fabric, and we were under covers, and still somewhat unsure of one another.

I am not unsure now, and I am not _so very_ frightened, not even as my husband's eyes roam over me, his Adam's apple bobbing. Without the protection of the bed covers, and with the light afforded by the candles and the roaring fireplace, it cannot be difficult to discern my shape through the thin cotton. Edward has seen my breasts before, yes. He has even wrapped his mouth and tongue around them, the memory of such making me tingle deep in my belly. But it was dark in that cellar, and-

"Lie back down," he whispers as if like me, he can no longer trust the steadiness of his voice. "I believe I can figure out the rest on my own." With his hands curved around my arms, he guides me back down onto the mattress, his mouth seeking mine.

"Edward, wait."

Immediately, he halts. "You need not be frightened," he murmurs. "I shall be gentle."

"I am not frightened. It is just…"

"Just?" he prompts.

"'Tis not very fair, I think, that I should be almost entirely undressed, yet you are fully clothed."

At this, he looks down at himself, then back up at me.

"You want to see me undressed?"

"Is it shocking I should admit to such?" I smile.

He grins. "The only thing that would shock me from you, my Isabella, is if you ever stopped shocking me."

"I think I may safely assure you that shall not happen anytime soon."

Edward releases me and turns to sit at the edge of the bed. His coat and vest were discarded upon our earlier arrival in the chamber. Now, he yanks off his boots and flings them aside before swiftly slipping off his stockings.

"If you would like, I can assist with the rest," I say as I watch him reach for his neckcloth.

He stills and turns, taking me in over his shoulder. His green eyes sparkle in the relative light of the room.

"I certainly shall not object."

He climbs the bed again, taking to his knees before me once more. I reach for his neckcloth.

"You shall find that, once my coat and vest are off, my garments are not nearly as complicated as yours." He smirks as I untie the knotted fabric 'round his neck. When I am done, I drop the cloth and cradle his rough cheek in one hand.

"I have been thinking you need a shave."

"Then you may give me one…afterward."

I nod slowly, and for an interminable moment, we simply kneel there, taking in one another. When I reach for Edward's shirt, he eagerly helps me pull it over his head.

Edward's shoulders are even broader than they seem under his clothing, golden from working in the fields, I assume. His arms are lined with sinewy veins and tight muscle. His chest is surprisingly smooth, considering the hair on his face, a slight amount of silky wisps of reddish-blond growing in the form of a 'T.' His stomach is perfectly flat, even concave where it is cut into sharp sections like the stomachs of those Roman statues in Father's books. As my eyes roam further downward, I see there is actually another bit of hair growing below his navel. 'Tis fuzzier and darker than the rest, curiously disappearing in a straight line below his breeches.

My husband is a beautifully and powerfully built man, and I cannot deny my gratitude for it.

"I am glad I please you," he chuckles.

My eyes pan back to his. "I did not realize I said that aloud," I smile.

He reaches for me, fisting the fabric on either side of my hips.

"Now, may I remove your shift, Isabella?"

I cannot help it. I drop my head as a shiver runs through my spine and makes my entire body quiver. Coward that I am, for I am _terrified_.

Edward places his thumb under my chin and lifts my eyes back to his. He smiles tenderly.

"You need not be frightened of me," he whispers as if he has known all along of my true feelings, even more than I have been willing to admit to myself. "I only aim to worship you as a husband is meant to worship his wife. With my body, I thee worship…" he breathes, repeating a part of those vows we made one another, and which I did not expect him to recall.

"With my body…I thee…Edward…"

My voice quivers. I want to say more. I want to say the words which have been at the tip of my tongue since we entered this chamber – since long before then. But Edward lifts my shift over my head, and my heart slams against my chest as it comes off. After that, all I know is I am kneeling before my husband, completely exposed. When I try to use my hands to cover those parts of me which he has seen before and that part which he has not, Edward takes my hands and weaves together our fingers.

"Dear Lord. Isabella, please never cover yourself from me," he pleads in a rather strangled voice. "You are even lovelier than I ever dared hope."

"My stockings must be untied-"

"No. Leave them on for now."

Then, he pulls me and presses his mouth to mine, parting my lips with his tongue. He kisses me with a passionate languidness which begins to relax me. I almost forget I am naked until he releases my hands and wraps his hands around my bare waist, his fingers stroking in time with his tongue's stroking. Slowly, his hands begin to trail lower and then curve around my bare backside, where he squeezes. I breathe heavily into his mouth.

"Shh," he murmurs. "Do not be frightened of what we do. Do not be frightened," he whispers. "I am your devoted husband, and you are my beloved wife."

I nod erratically, as his mouth proceeds lower and his hands smoothly caress my backside. When his mouth reaches my neck, I instinctively arch upward, providing him access to my collarbone. This sensation, of his mouth on my chest, is one with which I have become familiar, and I have craved. Lower and lower his mouth explores, and all becomes more known, more enjoyable, even the way his hands continue stroking and squeezing my backside. When his mouth finds my breast, I cry out in unabashed pleasure.

"Yes, Edward…"

From one to the other, his lips and tongue kiss and thrill me, his hands shifting from my breasts to my backside to rub and caress. A longing forms. It concentrates deeper within me as his mouth and hands claim me. I begin to clench and unclench in places I knew not could clench and unclench. My hands fist his hair and push his mouth closer.

"Edward…"

"Isabella…" he mouths as his tongue plays with my stiffened pebble, "reach down and push off my breeches."

By this point, I am quite dizzy. Nonetheless, I do as he says. My hands fumbled around the edge of his breeches and push.

Yet, though they slide past his hips, something keeps them from falling any lower.

Edward pulls away and meets my eyes. Only out of my periphery do I see him pull on the front of his breeches before he pushes them down all the way. Lifting one leg, then the other, he removes them. All the while, despite my burning curiosity, I keep my gaze fixed on his. My heart pounds so furiously I am sure he must hear it.

And then my inquisitiveness does get the better of me, and I look down between us.

I gasp sharply at what I find. Yet, before I may do more than that, Edward takes my arms and lowers me to the bed. He hovers above me.

"Do not be frightened by it."

I shake my head. "I am not frightened."

"I shall be gentle."

I nod wildly.

His leg moves in between both of mine and parts them.

"Do not be frightened," he whispers.

"I am not," I mouth as I feel something hard just at my entrance.

"Do not be..."

I shake my head. Then, Edward's eyes widen, and his breath hitches wildly. I press together my lips to keep from screaming.

"Lord Almighty, thank you," I think he breathes. I cannot be sure, for I have turned my head away and shut my eyes in an attempt to stave off the pain until he is done. And just as I begin to think I may succeed, he begins to move over me.

His advancement is slow and shallow at first, which keeps the burn more on the surface. Yet, with each thrust of his hips, he drives in quicker and deeper, until I believe he is encased as far as he may go, for a long, pleased sigh escapes him.

Tears form at the corners of my eyes. I feel his soft lips on my cheek, brushing back and forth, his heavy breaths washing over me. He grunts and he groans in time with his powerful thrusts. After a while, the rhythm of it all does distract me from the worst of the pain. Moreover, his hands, which had been rigidly locked on my shoulder blades, now move to gently cradle my face.

"Am I hurting you?"

I shake my head.

"Isabella, open your eyes. Isabella," he repeats when I fail to open my eyes.

When I do open them, he stops moving. "Good God, I _am_ hurting you." He begins to withdraw.

"No!" I wrap my legs tightly around his hips, keeping them firmly trapped. "No, Edward, do not withdraw."

"But-"

"I warn you, if you withdraw now, I may never allow you to put that in me again."

He stares at me. Then, he drops his head and begins to chuckle. Despite my position, I chuckle as well. When his mouth finds mine, he suckles softly on my lips.

"I do not want to hurt you, my love," he says against my mouth. "I want you to enjoy this as much as I am enjoying it."

"I have been told pain at this moment is something that cannot be helped," I smile. "As I did not have a mother to teach me, Mrs. Gage took me aside once. She told me it would hurt the first time, and possibly even the second and third. But then with time and practice, it would be pleasant. 'Tis why I was apprehensive, Edward. The unknown does not frighten me much, but the promise of pain does. I suppose I am a coward in that sense."

"You, my wife, are the furthest thing from a coward I have ever known. What can I do to make this easier for you, for I cannot bear to know my pleasure brings you pain." His concern is both palpable and endearing.

I cradle his stubbly cheek. "I promise you; it already hurts less than it did when we began. Just…continue being gentle with me, Edward. Be tender."

He holds my gaze, his eyes full of so many different emotions, 'tis bewildering and amazing all at once. When he resumes his thrusts, they are long and deep, yet languid in their rhythm so that I may become easier accustomed to the feel of his hardness moving in and out of me. And all the while, his eyes remain on mine. His mouth is soothing, whether it is kissing my lips, my forehead, or the tip of my nose. My arms tighten around his shoulders, and my legs tighten around his hips, for no matter the discomfort, the knowledge we are joined is exhilarating.

When he looks away, I lay a hand on his jaw and guide his eyes back to me.

"No, do not look away, for that makes the pain return."

"How?" he asks, his voice strained. "I am trying to be extremely careful."

"I know you are, but when you look away, you are simply a hard, strong man grinding into me. When you look at me, you are a tender rabbit."

He stills. "And now that you have compared me to a creature which is generally frightened and helpless, it shall indeed hurt less, for I wither as we speak."

I cannot help it. I throw back my head and arch my body upward as I laugh at this.

"Yes, laugh at me yet again this eve. Speed up the withering process."

When I look at him, he is grinning wryly.

"You are not withering at all, Edward. Do you forget you are inside me? I feel your length and breadth."

He groans long and hard. "Ah, Isabella, do not say such things if you do not want me to pound into you."

"I do not mean to imply you are soft like a frightened hare, simply…" Strangely enough, I must pause before I continue, for I feel I may cry. I reach up and cradle my husband's handsome face. "Edward, the first time I saw you at that fateful assembly, you seemed such an impassioned, strong, and…virile creature. And every other time in the weeks following, 'twas much the same. It was somewhat intimidating yet at the same time…thrilling. It was not until the night in the cellar, despite the darkness, that I saw tenderness…a gentleness toward me in your gaze. It is that tenderness which helps me now, Edward. Your body is strong, hard, and virile, yes, but I need the sensitivity in your eyes as well."

"Isabella…" He crushes me to him, wrapping our bodies so fully we are indeed one now. And for a long while, he neither shifts his hips nor any other part of us as we lay there, fully joined in every way. I feel his heart beat with mine, both of them suddenly in perfect sync.

He pulls back suddenly. "If I speak of love," he hisses fiercely, "if I tell you how much I love you – whether Tory, Patriot or anything in between…" He takes my hand and places it on his quickly beating heart, "if I tell you that you are the owner of my heart and soul, will that help?"

When he kisses my cheeks, his lips wipe away my tears.

"Yes. Yes, it shall help, for I love you with all my heart and soul as well."

This time, when he moves, it no longer hurts nor causes discomfort, not even when I meet him thrust for thrust.

"I love you, Isabella Cullen," he murmurs in my ear. "I love you," he whispers against my forehead. "I love you," he breathes fervently into my mouth.

And the cries that escape me from there on in are not caused by pain, but by pure, exhilarating pleasure.

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **So, as I was researching the exact clothing of the 18th century for this chapter, I almost passed out. I mean, seriously. How the hell did women of the time wear so much stuff and not totally faint dead away? And HOW did the men and women of that age not fall asleep or grow bored or tired while undressing one another for procreation purposes?**

 **For that reason, I claimed "creative license," and excluded a few pieces from Bella's wardrobe. Seriously, guys, there was more – another petticoat, something called side pockets, some strange, long piece under the stays, and I can't even recall what else. ***However, if you're interested in historical accuracy, I've posted a video of an 18th-century lady of Bella's social standing getting dressed (with the help of her maid, of course) on my Facebook page.*** It's good for a laugh or two, and maybe to realize just how good we've got it nowadays. ;)**

 **Other than that, I have no historical lesson for this chapter, for obvious reasons, lol.**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**

 **Happy Birthday shout out to Kristine Lewis Spiller!**

" **See" you guys next week!**


	13. Ch 13 - The Incident the Morning After

**A/N: Hey, guys! I know I was MIA last week. I had an "incident" of my own, that of a scratched cornea from which I thought I would die of pain. I didn't die, but the pain has definitely kept me from finishing this chapter. It still hurts, not as much, but…it still hurts, lol. So, instead of holding this chapter hostage until my full recovery, I've posted a shortened chapter. I'll try to finish the rest of it by late this week. :)**

 **Thanks so much for your wonderful thoughts.**

 **Some characters belong to S. Meyer, some belong to history, and some belong to me.**

* * *

 **Chapter 13 – The Incident the Morning After**

For the better part of a half hour, I have watched Isabella in her slumber, ever since the first, weak bands of dawn began their assault on the shuttered curtains. Daylight is hell-bent on disturbing the dark yet heavenly cocoon in which I am engulfed. I find prayer does not halt the sunrise. What's more, the rooster has joined the battle against me, and I see there is no point in fighting nature.

The inevitability of nature's course is a fitting thought as I look down at my wife. She is still fast asleep in my arms, with her soft lips and her wild head of silky dark curls upon my bare chest. Her warm arms wind 'round my waist and her smooth legs tangle with mine. All of it makes me wonder why I tried so hard to fight nature. In the past few days – or more accurately, in the past few months – I have progressed from wrestling with my feelings for Isabella, to acceptance, and aye, to treasuring the knowledge that my love for her is innate. 'Tis inborn in me to love her, some instinct buried deep and dormant until the moment I espied her in the assembly. 'Twas counterproductive to struggle, for one cannot resist what is native to one's soul.

When the damnable cock crows for the second time, my heart stills as I watch her for signs of waking. Yet, her breathing remains silent and even, her beautiful eyes shuttered, and her warm body motionless. I have had her three times since last evening; she is evidently exhausted. Nevertheless, I am torn between allowing her repose or waking her – to speak with her, to laugh with her, and aye, to love her.

When the cock crows a third time, I skim my nose up and down her cheek.

"Isabella, my love," I murmur. "Isabella."

My hand cups her breast, one finger circling the darkened pebble at its center while my other hand skims downward to her smooth, flat stomach. I picture my wife round with our child: a robust son or a beautiful, bold daughter born in a free nation – for I shall allow no less. Yet, the imaginings and the smile both give way to a prolonged intake of breath. Lost in thought, I have allowed my hand its continued wandering, and it now finds itself between her naked thighs.

"Lord Almighty," I breathe to myself, cupping her tenderly as memories of last evening inundate me. She is so tight and warm. When I bury myself within her, I am immersed in more heat than I ever thought imaginable. 'Tis like a beacon calling to me, one of which I do not believe I shall ever be sated.

"Isabella…"

Just as I determine to leave her be, the cock crows for the fourth and last time and my beloved's lips part in a long breath. When her bewitchingly dark eyes open, a smile forms on my own lips, for I guessed yesterday morn that the rooster's final crow might always precede her waking. It appears I was correct.

She greets me with a smile. "Good morning, Edward."

"Good morning, Isabella. Did you sleep well?"

"I slept as the dead must sleep; at least, for those few hours in which I slept."

"My love, are you sore?"

She nods, but the smile lingers. "I shall not deny I am. I daresay we are thoroughly man and wife now, as evidenced by both the long night and by where your hands currently rest."

I should not be disappointed, for I have had her three times. Yet, I must admit to myself, if not to her, that fleetingly, I am. 'Tis as if with every ensuing time we make love, I desire her all the more. Nevertheless, I am too joyful this morn to feel frustration more than transiently. Withdrawing my hands from her warm, soft places, I cradle her face and brush my lips to her forehead, her nose, and then, to her mouth before pulling back only enough to meet her eyes.

"I shall hunt for your pins as I promised last evening."

"So, you recall that promise? I had thought it said in the heat of passion to rid me of my garments."

"As you see, I do recall it, my impish wife," I smirk, running my fingers through her long hair as I have ached to do for weeks if not months. "When you are dressed, we shall go riding as you wished to this morning. That is…" I quirk an eyebrow, "if you are well enough to ride?"

She bites the inside of her cheek as I have learned she does when pondering. "I do long to ride my sweet mare. I believe I may be comfortable enough if I limit myself to riding Hope side-saddle this morning."

"Very well. Side-saddle you shall remain. Now, I shall get to locating those pins…"

As I attempt to lift myself off of her, Isabella wraps her arms 'round my shoulders. When she pulls my mouth to hers, we kiss passionately, our bodies tangling together. 'Tis the most decadent sensation I have ever imagined, not only that of being allowed to claim her in this manner but having _her_ instigate it. Even more wonderfully, one of her hands trails down from my shoulder, further to my ribs, and then between us.

"Isabella, what are you about?" I whisper, smiling against her mouth as my chest heaves with hers.

"I am guiding you," she breathes.

Groaning, and utilizing more mental and physical restraint than I have ever employed, I force my hips still.

"You are sore, my love," I remind her.

"Shh." She finds what she searches and wraps her fingers 'round. At first, her grasp is hesitant and unsure. But when I moan into her mouth, she grips me with more confidence, at which point I drop my head to her shoulder, too helpless to do more than fall atop her.

"Isabella," I mouth against her neck, "I do not want to cause you more discomfort."

"'Tis not discomfort any longer, I promise you. What's more, with every instance, the sensation of having you within me grows more pleasurable. Edward, I shall never become completely accustomed to it if we do not continuously prac- _Ohh_."

My wife releases a long, shuddering breath, unable to say more as I fill her.

OOOOOOOOOO

About another half hour later, I am in my breeches and on hands and knees upon the floor, hunting for my wife's garment pins, all the while calling out for Leah. When I prick my finger with a wayward pin and yelp, Isabella laughs from where she awaits naked under the covers. Once all pins are located, I set them on the dresser, and once more call out for Leah.

"Edward, may I have my robe, please?" Isabella requests as I slide my arms into my shirt. "'Tis cold here without you. You shall find it hanging by the wardrobe."

With a smug smile, I pass her the pretty, silk garment. Even such a small privilege fills me with pride at being her husband in _every_ way. 'Tis my right to pass my naked wife her robe. Afterward, I move to the door to call out for Leah.

"Where is she? We have not been locked in here long enough to go forgotten. Have we?"

My wife chuckles. Donning her robe, she sits at the edge of the bed. "The poor girl has probably fled the house, or at the very least determined never to show her face in this chamber again, with the way you chased her off last night."

Through the small mirror atop the dresser, I smirk as I pour water from the pitcher into the wash basin.

"After the evening we had, I cannot even regret frightening her." I grin shamelessly as I splash my face and use the rough cloth to rub the salt, chalk, mint, and cloves teeth cleanser mixture onto my teeth.

"You are incorrigible," she chastises with a snort. Yet, as I groom myself, she openly watches and admires me. "You do need a shave, Edward. _I_ shall shave you after our ride, and every other time afterward." She states this as if she is claiming an exclusive privilege of her own.

Once I am done cleaning my face and teeth, I return to her side and kneel before her. My hands stroke her thighs; although, I ensure I keep them over her robe. Otherwise, we shall never leave these chambers.

"If you wish my grooming be your duty, I shall happily concede and look forward to it. But, may _I_ help you dress, Isabella? I took your clothes off. 'Tis only fair I learn to put it all back on as well."

"That is true, but I would like to dress this morning, thank you very much. If left to your devices, your lack of skill combined with your lack of desire in the duty of _dressing_ will leave me half-clothed 'til noon."

"You are maddening," I hiss, "but likely correct."

She shakes her head in mock disapproval before momentarily dropping her gaze. Nevertheless, I see her cheeks color.

"Truthfully, Edward," she whispers, "before I dress, I think I would like a warm bath to soothe certain…parts – if you do not mind waiting a bit longer for me to be ready?"

Taking her hand in mine, I kiss her palm and wait for her dark eyes to meet mine. "Of course, I do not mind. I shall go dress and then ask Mrs. Clearwater to heat water for the tub." Lifting myself upward, I find her mouth and gently move my lips with hers. "I love you, Isabella Cullen. Like my promise to find your pins, 'twas not merely said in a moment of passion."

She smiles against my mouth. "I am glad to hear it, for I love you as well, Edward Cullen."

'Tis in this manner of kissing and whispering endearments which we are found. When the doors open, a sharp gasp signals the end of our magnificent solitude.

"Oh, I am so sorry!" I hear Leah exclaim. "I shall return in a-"

"No, no, do not leave, Leah," I grin as with one final kiss, I pull away from my wife. "Isabella requires your assistance, since apparently, I am too much of a brute to do the duty."

My wife chuckles. "I did not call you a brute, Edward. Do not spread such rumors."

When I finally manage to pull my gaze away from her, I find Leah staring at us with her mouth slightly agape.

"A good morning to you, Leah. Did you sleep in today?"

By the way her eyes widen, she does not realize I am jesting. "Nay, sir. I did not wish to disturb you and the mistress too early. Therefore, I was tidying the spare room after Mister Jasper's use of it last evening-"

"Jasper slept here?"

"Aye, sir."

I slap my thigh. "Well, why did you not tell me that in the first place? It appears I have been needlessly concerned about him all night."

I genuinely have been concerned; although, one might not guess it based on the grin which refuses to leave my mouth. Nevertheless, despite this misplaced grin, Leah still does not seem to comprehend I am not truly chastising her.

"Because you said whosoever disturbed you and the mistress last evening would do so at their peril. And your father and Mister Jasper also said I should not disturb you. Then Mama said this morning I should wait to be called before coming to your chambers, and-"

"You did well, Leah. My husband and I are both grateful," Isabella says.

When I look at my wife, she gives me a reproving look, which I swiftly realize I deserve. Not only is Leah unaccustomed to all the rules I set up last evening, but she has never seen me in such a mood – such as the one in which I currently find myself after having spent all night bedding my wife. For years, the household has consisted of two bachelor men with no other real interests beyond those of our colonies' freedom from tyranny.

"Aye, my wife is correct," I grin more magnanimously, for Leah is almost like a younger sister to me, and truly, I do not aim to perturb her. "Thank you, Leah."

She nods and smiles in evident relief.

"Now, is Jasper still here?"

"Aye, sir. He is in the dining hall with your father, Jacob, Mister Emmett and Mistress Rosalie. I was in the kitchen helping Mama and could not hear you calling at first."

"That is fine," I repeat. Then, I turn back to my wife. "I shall join them downstairs. Take your time," I say gently, brushing my lips against her forehead. More firmly I add, "But when done, do make sure you come meet us in the dining hall, Isabella, for we shall be waiting for you."

She nods, and in her dark eyes, I see she comprehends my meaning.

"I shall meet you as soon as I am ready."

As I turn and head for the doors, I hear some of the women's conversation.

"Do not mind him, Leah. My husband finds himself in a…sportive sort of disposition this morning."

"I do not mind at all, Mistress Isabella. 'Tis good to see you both in a joyful mood." She catches herself and swiftly adds, "If you do not mind me saying."

"I do not mind at all," Isabella chuckles, as I chuckle quietly while shutting the door behind me.

OOOOOOOOOO

I cannot manage to rid myself of my grin even as I make my way down the staircase. I whistle as I 'round the halls. I sing to myself as I turn into the dining hall, from where I hear the usual voices.

 _Yankee Doodle is the tune  
We sing to build a nation;  
For God's own glory is with us,  
And with the Brits damn…nay…tion…_

The final word of the verse is perhaps elongated and stressed more than usual when I catch sight of everyone. They are indeed gathered 'round the table, as usual. But that is the only thing which is typical. For a handful of seconds, Jasper and I merely lock eyes, for I have known him since I was a lad. We need not many words.

"How long before we must depart?"

"Preferably by early afternoon. We must reach Fort Ticonderoga within the week."

"Fort Ticonderoga?"

"Aye, Edward. We must-"

"Jasper, give me a moment. I must speak with Mrs. Clearwater."

I make my way into the kitchen, where Mrs. Clearwater is busy pounding dough over the wooden table. When she senses my approach, she turns and gives me a melancholic sort of smile.

I rest a hand on her shoulder. "Good morning, Mrs. Clearwater. If you please," I murmur, "my wife requires hot water for a bath to…to…"

"'Tis already waiting in the tub for her," Mrs. Clearwater replies softly, "nice and warm, and with bathing oils Miss Rosalie has provided meant to soothe."

"Thank- thank you," I stutter, my face as hot as the fire in the hearth.

She lifts a floured hand and pats my cheek. "No need for bashfulness, my boy. I have cared for you since your dear mama – the Lord bless her soul – passed, and I am happy to know you have found a woman who can keep you thinking, for I always knew 'twas the sort of wife you would one day require." She leans in and whispers, "Not like that Miss Katrina – that one would have agreed the sky was green had you said so." Despite her words, there is clear sadness in her ensuing sigh. "You go do what you must. We shall take care of the mistress."

"Thank you," I repeat, smiling weakly at her before I make my way out of the kitchen, furiously wiping flour from my face.

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **I'll try to post the rest by the end of the week, if this cornea cooperates, lol. If not, have a great weekend!**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**

 *****Brief History Lesson For Those Who Are Interested*****

 **The Capture of Fort Ticonderoga:**

 **Even before shooting started in the American Revolutionary War, American Patriots were concerned about Fort Ticonderoga. The fort was situated on the shores of Lake Champlain, a strategically important route between the Thirteen Colonies and the British-controlled northern provinces of Canada. British forces placed there would expose the colonial forces in Boston to attack from the rear. The fort was a valuable asset for several reasons. Within its walls was a collection of heavy artillery including cannons, mortars, and armaments that the Americans had in short supply. After the war began with the Battles of Lexington and Concord on April 19, 1775, British General Thomas Gage realized the fort would require fortification, and several colonists had the idea of capturing the fort.**

 **Benedict Arnold frequently traveled through the area around the fort, and he was familiar with its condition, manning, and armaments. When Arnold arrived outside Boston, he told the Massachusetts Committee of Safety about the cannons and other military equipment at the lightly defended fort. On May 3, the Committee gave Arnold a colonel's commission and authorized him to command a "secret mission", which was to capture the fort. He was issued £100, some gunpowder, ammunition, and horses, and instructed to recruit up to 400 men, march on the fort, and ship back to Massachusetts anything he thought useful.**

 **We shall meet Benedict Arnold and learn a bit more regarding the Capture of Fort Ticonderoga in the next chapter. :)**


	14. Status Update

Good morning! A quick note on the status of _Uprising_ :

I haven't abandoned it! I know I haven't updated in a while, and I apologize to those who've been waiting. I had another plot bunny hit me around the holidays, and I just had to get that one down. It was originally meant as a short story, but it grew a little longer than I planned. Unfortunately, that's led to _Uprising_ being on hold for longer than I planned. BUT, _After Christmas_ is almost complete, and as soon as it is, I'll be getting back to _Uprising_. So, it won't be too much longer before there's an update here instead of a silly note. :)

Thanks so much to you guys who've stuck around and waited. I hope the next chapter is worth it. :)

Patty.


	15. Ch 14 The Incident Aboard the Enterprise

**A/N: Good morning! It's been a long time; I'm fully aware. I can waste time with explanations, but how about we just get right to it?**

 **Please note this is an extremely long chapter! I figured I might as well catch us up a bit, but the next few chapters won't be as long. Also, I expect I'll post a chapter a week from here on in. :)**

 **Due to the length of the chapter itself, we'll skip the history lesson this time, but I'll try to include one in the next chapter. I think most of you know who Benedict Arnold is anyway. (If not, a google search will give you plenty of instant info!)**

 **Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me or history. :)**

* * *

 **Chapter 14 – The Incident Aboard the Enterprise**

On those evenings when I manage to shut my eyes, 'tis this I often see…

 _ **April 25, 1775 – Freehold Township, New Jersey Colony**_

" _A prodigiously good morning to all."_

 _From the head of the rectangular wooden table, I watched my wife walk into the dining hall and deliver a perfect curtsey to the room at large. Rosalie, who had left the table a short while earlier to allow us discussion and to – "instruct your wife on the proper utilization of the bathing oils meant to soothe her after the loss of her maidenhood" – stood silently at her side. A heart-tighteningly joyous smile alighted Isabella's beautiful face as she dipped her head low. I watched her, transfixed by the elegance of her blue and gold riding habit, by the sharp lines of her fine, small redingote fitted seamlessly to her narrow waist, by the swing of her heavy skirts, and even more, by the swing of her slightly damp, chestnut curls bouncing 'round her face. I recalled how like silk those curls felt in my grip a short while earlier._

 _Selfish bastard, I reveled in those few moments of her ignorance, feeding off her unbound joy like a cowardly leach._

" _A good morning to you, Mistress Cullen," was the reply at various intervals._

 _When every man in the dining hall – Father, Emmett, Jasper, and Jacob – stood and returned her greeting with proper bows, my chest expanded in pride. Every day, I detected from them something more than mere respect but rather an acceptance of Isabella as my wife...as one of us. Duncan, the imbecile, was the exception and therefore still not welcome in our home._

 _My wife arose from her curtsey, and when she lifted her face, her eyes instantly found mine. The grin which she directed toward me was a glorious thing to behold indeed; like a ray of sun, and almost sufficient to douse the dark clouds coiling around my being. For a fraction of a second, as her sparkling gaze held mine, I thought I detected a falter in the brilliance of her smile. When I blinked, however, the smile was there still._

" _Have I missed the morning meal?"_

" _Not at all, Isabella." I attempted a smile of my own in return; though likely a weak and poor imitation of hers. "We await the mistress before we break our fast."_

 _As she stepped toward the table, I swiftly pulled out the chair next to mine. At the same instant, my father stood from his seat at the other head and gestured toward his own chair._

" _Isabella, as my son rightly points out, you are mistress…and I have been remiss, for this seat be yours."_

 _My wife stopped where she stood, blinking profusely as she looked at my father's seat and the one I offered._

" _Why, thank you, Mr.-"_

" _Papa Carlisle," I saw him mouth._

" _Th- thank you, Papa Carlisle." Her stammer was a mainly indiscernible action, from which she quickly recovered, lifting her chin as her smile suddenly morphed into something more impish._

" _Thank you, Papa Carlisle, but pray remain in your seat." Her teasing gaze shifted toward me. "You see, the night we wed, your son informed me that this household does not stand on ceremony. In which case, I am suitably seated at my husband's side."_

 _Yes, she was an imp through and through; yet, with those words, my pride and respect for her multiplied tenfold. Based on the ensuing, quiet chuckles and my father's stunned reaction before he bellowed a hearty laugh, our friends' estimation of her grew as well._

" _Yes,_ _ **wife**_ _," I stressed with a smug smirk, "I did say that, did I not? Now, come take your place, for we are hungry."_

 _With a softer smile, she resumed her graceful stride. When she reached me, I took her hand and brought it lightly to my lips before assisting her into her seat._

" _Thank you, but in the future, husband, 'tis not necessary to starve the room at large while awaiting my arrival, else I should always be fearful of oversleeping."_

 _For a moment, we held one another's gazes, both of us knowing 'twas not sleep which caused her delay._

" _I shall keep that in mind for the next occasion when you_ _ **oversleep**_ _, for I fear you shall_ _ **oversleep**_ _plenty. Truly, are you well?" I whispered more intimately._

" _I am well," she murmured, her cheeks reddening despite her previous pertness. "Mrs. Clearwater prepared me a warm bath, and Leah and Rosalie assisted me. Rosalie's bathing oils helped to quell the…the…"_

" _The soreness?"_

 _She nodded subtly, turning away her face. When Mrs. Clearwater approached with Isabella's repast, my wife dropped her head to hide her blush._

" _There you go, Mistress."_

 _Isabella replied quietly. "Thank you, Mrs. Clearwater," – she lay her hand lightly on the lady's arm – "and thank you for your assistance earlier…"_

" _No thanks be necessary, young mistress," Mrs. Clearwater replied affectionately._

 _I watched Isabella offer our housekeeper a warm, private smile before lifting her head and her chin once more as she spoke more loudly._

" _I thank you, Mrs. Clearwater, for taking care of our guests while I readied myself this morn."_

"' _Tis my pleasure and my duty, Mistress," Mrs. Clearwater replied with more formality, yet with the affectionate smile still in place._

 _When the lady moved away, Isabella's intelligent eyes again returned to me. My brow furrowed in confusion when she released a long and deep sigh._

" _When do you depart?"_

 _For the last few minutes, such had been my joy in my wife's presence and at her growing confidence in her new home and with her new role, that for those few minutes, I allowed myself to forget I would soon be away from her. But as I met her eyes once more, my own eyes enlarged and rounded by shock, I saw what I selfishly ignored as she walked toward me: her anxiety, her bewilderment…and her sadness._

 _Overwhelmed by guilt, I looked away, and my gaze alighted on Rosalie, seated beside her husband at the other end of the table. My gaze narrowed accusingly._

" _I said nothing," she stated before I could speak._

" _She did not," Isabella confirmed._

 _Though surrounded by a half dozen others, her soft hand reached up to cradle my cheek. It required every ounce of willpower I possessed not to lean into it and shut my eyes._

"' _Twas written on your face, Edward, the moment I walked into the dining hall."_

" _Your wife reads you like a pamphlet, Edward, and you be wed a mere fortnight? I pity you a score from now, for you will have no private thoughts."_

" _Speak you from your decade of marital experience, husband?" Rosalie inquired. "Though, if your time estimation be correct, you still enjoy the privacy of every other thought, so your situation cannot be so dire."_

 _Emmett chuckled; though the sound was hollow, and his own manner more subdued than the norm, for he would be leaving his wife as well._

" _I require no private thoughts from you, my wife," he grinned._

 _Throughout their exchange, my eyes remained on my wife. I rested my hand on hers and thread together our fingers, deciding I cared not who witnessed._

" _I need no pity," I said. "Better my wife read me so easily than others."_

" _True, as I have pointed out on more than one occasion," Isabella said. Despite her jest, her ensuing smile was full of melancholy. "Will we still have time to go riding this morning?"_

" _I promised you we would go riding this morning, and so we shall."_

 _She held my gaze for a few moments before once more squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin._

" _And I promised you a shave afterward."_

" _And so you shall shave me, Isabella."_

 _OOOOOOOOOO_

 **May 19, 1775 – Lake Champlain, Province of Quebec**

"You cannot be serious, man, when you say you mean to continue to Fort Saint-Jean?"

Colonel Benedict Arnold's present outrage is so verily massive it seeps through his pores. 'Tis with mounting wariness I watch him fist his hands at his sides. In these past weeks, since first we embarked on our expedition, I have learnt he is a man of strong emotions, which sway as the wind blows.

In these same past weeks, I have also learnt that the other _Colonel_ in our venture, one Ethan Allen, hailing from land up north, thoroughly enjoys infuriating Arnold. At the moment, they stand opposite one another while Allen nods in the languidly arrogant manner which tends to cause Arnold's face to turn the color of a lobsterback's coat.

"I tell you," Arnold shouts into Allen's impassive mask, "we have just come and left the fort because we have been informed that a large regiment of British Regulars are on their way. Nevertheless, we have seized all useful supplies and burnt or sunk the rest. There is nothing which warrants return!"

"Perhaps there is nothing which warrants _your_ return to the fort, but _we_ mean to capture it as my men and I captured Fort Ticonderoga and Fort Crown Point." Thus, Allen declares with maddening calm. "Control of one more fort along these waterways cannot hurt our cause."

"Nor our pockets," snickers Seth Warner, a cousin to Allen as well as one of his captains, who stands behind him. The two other flanking him snort their agreement.

"Unscrupulous reprobates." Standing to Arnold's left, Jasper hisses the words loudly enough for all to hear. From where I stand to Arnold's right, I flash my eyes toward Jasper in warning, whereas I find him with arms crossed tensely over his chest, his mouth twisted in a scowl of disgust as he glares at Allen and his men. I recognize the posture; he is spoiling for a fight.

Nevertheless, neither Allen nor his men react in any way.

In all, eight of us – two colonels and three captains to each – stand in a circular-shaped and hastily-called war council at the bow of the sloop-of-war, _Enterprise;_ she formerly the _HMS Royal George_ until yesterday. At the break of dawn, Colonel Arnold and about three dozen of us under his command captured her in the murky waters of Richelieu River off Lake Champlain, in the British-held Province of Quebec. She then became the main prize among the rest of this campaign's commandeered fleet; a campaign which commenced in late April, when Colonel Arnold sent a few of his most trusted men into the colonies to gather strong, able-bodied patriots. Less than two weeks later, led by two constantly dueling colonels, we captured Fort Ticonderoga.

Since then, it has been a comedy of friction and discord between both men.

Notwithstanding the perpetual turbulence, we have accomplished much. The capture of Fort Ticonderoga is a great strategic victory, for the Fort is situated between our colonies and the French colonized but now British-controlled northern provinces. We have high hopes that these northern provinces, who share with us not a mutual language but more importantly, a mutual hatred for the British, shall soon join our pursuit for liberty from tyranny.

However, as the lay of the land now stands, the Fort has historically eased communication and logistical coordination between British forces up north and those further south as it did throughout the conflict with the French and Indians. At the time, such ease suited we colonials, for we fought for our "Motherland." Now, if we are to defeat the redcoats and rid our land of them, we cannot allow such comforts.

Therefore, after last month's victories at Lexington and Concord, the strategic value of the fort came into sharp notice. Benedict Arnold, fellow _Son of Liberty_ and a captain in Connecticut colony's militia, brought up this fact to the Massachusetts Committee of Safety. They, in turn, granted him a Colonel's commission to embark on the expedition as well as to gather men and elect captains.

By capturing the fort, we have not only hampered communication between the British forces, but we have also seized a host of invaluable military supplies such as cannons, mortars, and artillery, as well as the fleet by which we shall transport it all to where it is presently needed by our cause.

Thus, it would be a gross understatement to state that the entire campaign has kept me engaged, occupied, and exhilarated, for we are _finally_ in active enterprise towards our freedom from oppression. However, 'twould be an even greater and heftier untruth to state that any of it has kept my mind off of _her…_ off of my wife.

It has been almost one month now we have been apart - longer than the time we spent together wedded. Nevertheless, Isabella is always in the background of my thoughts. The memory of her dark, intelligent eyes and quick wit sear through my chest. The memory of her musical laughter quickens my pulse. The memory of her soft, warm body does things more difficult to hide as I lay on the cold ground or a damp field or a hard, ship's hammock. Sometimes, 'tis too much to bear, and I squeeze my eyes shut in a futile effort to push the distractions away.

These be the very sort of distractions why I never thought to marry…to love; at the very least, not until we as a united country obtained our God-given right to self-determination. Nevertheless, 'tis useless to expend my energy in such a lost fight now – for love my wife I do.

Even now, as I watch Colonel Arnold's eyes narrow into indignant, enraged slits, _she_ is there, shaping what I see, hear, and think. When I determine I must ensure Colonel Arnold does not lose complete control, 'tis as much for his and our cause's benefit as for my benefit. Should one of these men kill the other, the rest would join in the melee, and 'twould surely be a divisive and ominous beginning to our struggle. What is more, 'twould lead to an inquest. An inquest would require testimony from all those present and still alive. All this would, at the very least, delay my return to Isabella.

When Arnold next speaks, his voice is steeped in barely-controlled acrimony.

"Firstly, may I remind you, _Colonel_ Allen," Arnold hisses derisively, for Ethan Allen has no official commission beyond that elected to him by his fellow _Green Mountain Boys_ , "that my captains and I are just as responsible for the successful raid and capture of Fort Ticonderoga as are you and your boys? Furthermore, once we captured the fort, while you and your boys plundered the liquor and the provisions, 'twas my men and I who took stock and cataloged the military equipment. Secondly, allow me to mention that while you and your boys moved further downriver and captured Fort Crown Point, not only did a portion of my men remain behind to hold Fort Ticonderoga, but others of us moved on to capture Fort St. John. _And_ ," he continues without drawing breath, "'twas my regiment and I who were the _lone_ captors of the fleet at Crown Point and outside Fort St. Jean! Now," – by this point, he visibly vibrates – "as the one, true commissioned Colonel in this expedition, I command you and your boys to-"

Throughout Arnold's speech, Allen noisily chews his tobacco, seemingly unbothered and unimpressed by Arnold's growing ire. Yet, once Arnold utters the word "command," Allen's entire apathetic demeanor shifts. He spits out his minced leaves into the middle of our circle and draws forward, his favored cutlass in hand. Arnold espies this instantly and cuts off his speech to wrap a hand tightly around his own favored weapon, a sharp bayonet.

"Firstly, _Colonel_ Arnold," Allen seethes, "the only reason you and your men were the lone raiders and captors of the fleet was that you and your men snuck out of Crown Point like thieves in the night and purposely left behind my men and me!"

"Your boys and yourself were occupied with drinking and eating yourselves into a stupor!"

"My men and I were left to starve, forced to sail almost one hundred miles with no provisions!"

"That is your folly, not ours!" Jasper rejoinders in a growl. "At no point did the colonel or any of us ask you to join us here on Lake Champlain! You did so of your own accord!"

"What is more, we are transferring provisions onto your boats as we speak." I add this in an attempt to minimize the adversity amongst us, yet Colonel Arnold seems determined to escalate it.

"Despite the fact that you and your men's insubordination and lack of deference affords you no such-"

Arnold does not complete the phrase for, in one, furious stride, Allen closes all space between them. He must tilt his head upward sharply to hold Arnold's gaze, for he is much shorter than the other. When his words spew forth, they are accompanied by thick spittle from the force of their ferocity.

"I warned you from the very start, _Colonel_ Arnold, my Green Mountain Boys and I take no orders from you or yours! What is more, they shall never answer to anyone but me!"

"You and your men are nothing more than a filthy band of lawless-"

"Colonel," – I charge forward swiftly before one of the hotheads raises his weapon – "if I may offer a suggestion?"

In my periphery, I see Allen slowly angle his head and lift his murderous gaze toward me. His grip tightens around his cutlass. I address this; however, my gaze remains on Benedict Arnold.

"Ethan Allen, your twitching fingers are genuinely starting to make me uneasy. Allow me to make a suggestion to _you_ if I may. Pray remove your hand from your cutlass, for if you recall, I am younger, stronger, and quicker of reflexes, and if your twitching fingers push me to the limits of discomfort, I cannot be held responsible if I relieve you of them first and apologize for my error later."

Snickers arise from all shipboard sides and quarters, including from Allen's men.

"'Tis true enough; Captain Cullen is prodigiously quick with both sword and rifle."

"And why he was named captain along with wily Captain Hale and brawny Captain McCarthy."

"Did you observe him at Fort Ticonderoga, how he disarmed half a dozen red coats by himself?"

"Yes, but he killed none."

"I would not wager it means he would not."

All the while, my eyes remain on Colonel Arnold, though I hear Allen's bull-like huffs. Eventually, the latter drops his hand from his weapon, followed by Colonel Arnold.

"What is your suggestion for _me_ , Captain Cullen?" Arnold inquires.

"I would suggest perhaps…perhaps simply allow them to continue to Fort St. Jean if they so wish."

Both cheers and jeers rise within our war council, each from their obvious corners.

"Edward!" Jasper hisses.

"As I said, Captain Cullen," Allen sneers, "we seek not permission."

'Tis true what Colonel Arnold more than implies; along with his _Green Mountain Boys_ , Ethan Allen is nothing more than a vandal and a marauder. Stories of their wayward exploits have traveled as far as New Jersey Colony. They use the issue of the competing ownership claims made by New Hampshire Colony and New York Colony of the Grants – open land west of the Connecticut River – to carry on their barbaric lawlessness.

Now, while I admit I hold New York Colony in no great affection, 'tis not the fault of those settlers striking out to build new lives that the area in which they bought land is claimed by both New Hampshire and New York. Furthermore, 'tis not their fault King George settled the claims in favor of his minions in New York. 'Tis these minions who should pay for such malfeasance, not the innocent settlers who thought to buy unclaimed land.

Nonetheless, Ethan Allen and his _Green Mountain Boys_ do all they can to strike fear into these individuals: they burn homes to the ground, manhandle settlers, threaten and curse surveyors. Rumor has it that he and his Boys' presence here throughout this campaign has less to do with patriotism and more to do with escaping punishment for the deaths of two settlers, which occurred during a riot started by Allen and his Boys.

All this is to say I hold no respect for the man; yet, I do respect Arnold, and even more…I long to return to my wife. For these reasons, I resist my natural urgings and do not draw on Allen and his men.

"Colonel, we have successfully completed our main mission, which was to capture Fort Ticonderoga and gather as many supplies and artillery for our cause. What Allen and his men do now is of no concern to us, for as you rightly point out, they have no official sanction. They took it upon themselves to carry out this mission with us. Now, they may run head-on into danger for no good reason if they so wish."

"I do not agree with Captain Cullen, Colonel," Jasper says emphatically. "Assert your command, sir, or you shall never be taken seriously by this new army."

"You shall not be taken seriously, sir if this mission dissolves into rebellion and infighting between two factions on the same side of our struggle."

As I contradict Jasper, I keep my gaze steadily on Arnold, whose chest heaves and nostrils flare.

"Colonel Arnold…Benedict." I drop my voice to a whisper and lean in close to the man's shoulder. "They are _not_ officially sanctioned and therefore not under our command. They are _not_ fellow Sons of Liberty as are you and I nor do they partake in our patriotic brotherhood. They are nothing more than a distraction with which we need _not_ concern ourselves."

I squeeze the man's stiff shoulder. Allen is a fool, for Arnold is twice his height and breadth. If it comes to a dual, Arnold shall crush the other man.

"Colonel Arnold," I say, "let us focus our efforts on the true struggle before us, on asserting our God-given rights. Anything other are merely distractions."

The conflict within Arnold is visible. His shoulders rise and fall with his heavy breaths, his brow furiously furrowed as he ponders the options before him. His eyes skitter jumpily between Allen, Jasper, and myself.

"Colonel, assert your authority," Jasper repeats.

"Colonel, show why you were chosen by Massachusetts' Congress to lead this expedition, and ignore the distractions. Fight those battles which further our mission, not those which shall hinder it."

Arnold exhales loudly and looks down at Allen once more.

"Go on your fool's errand, and God help you if the redcoats have beat you there."

OOOOOOOOOO

 _ **April 25, 1775 – Freehold Township, New Jersey Colony**_

 _We rode together side by side in a slow ramble suited to my beginner wife; though, Aro impatiently pulled on the reins, anxious to race across the fields as was our norm in the mornings. Isabella rode her mare, Hope, side-saddle, both her legs resting on the shoulder of the horse's near side. Her skirts fully sheathed her legs, flowing past her feet, so not even her small boots peaked from below them. In my mind's eye, I could still see the perfect image of their naked form. I recalled the smooth skin of her thighs, the sounds she made just a few, short hours earlier as I skimmed my hands and mouth over them._

 _All the while I offered her instruction. In turn, she patted her gentle beast's crown, whispering endearments in her mare's ear. For a long while, they were the only words she spoke. When she finally addressed me, her gaze remained on Hope._

" _Can you tell me where you go?"_

 _By then, we had reached the orchards. We trotted between the apple blossom trees, whose rose-toned hues perfectly complimented my wife's dark blue riding habit. She was queen, and they her subjects._

 _With a deep breath, I unmounted Aro and tied him to a tree. He kicked impatiently, whinnying and upset at the prosaicness of the day. Then, I assisted Isabella off her mare. As I tied her horse, she wandered off some distance and stood with her back to me, staring into the rich, orchard field._

 _She heard my approach but did not turn nor react until I circled my arms 'round her slim waist and pulled her back against my chest. Then, as always, she offered me no resistance._

" _I cannot tell you," I finally replied, "and know 'tis only for your safety that I do not."_

" _Does a decade of matrimony afford Rosalie knowledge of where_ _ **her**_ _husband goes?" she inquired nonetheless._

 _I turned her in my arms and waited for her to meet my gaze, for I already knew she would only do so on her own time. When she did, her gaze was indeed fiery._

" _For her safety, it does not. Isabella, Rosalie knows what you know: that we shall be performing a service to further…to further our cause."_

 _She nodded slowly. "Do you know how long you shall be away?"_

" _No."_

" _So I am not to know where you go nor for how long. May I visit my father while you are gone?"_

" _No."_

 _At this, her eyes flashed, dainty nostrils flaring._

" _Isabella, I only issue directives for your safety," I reminded her._

" _I have no desire to leave you anymore if that is what you fear!" she yelled._

 _I dropped my hands from 'round her waist. "That is not what I fear, Isabella, but Freehold Township descends into chaos, and I want you nowhere near it; most especially while I am away!"_

" _Then, do not go."_

" _I must."_

" _I ask you again, Edward: do not go."_

" _Damnation." I shut my eyes tightly, consumed by a desire to howl at the blue skies. "Isabella, I must," I breathed._

" _Very well. I shall not ask again."_

 _Eyes still shut, I waited for the sharp sound of her riding habit rustling away, for her to stalk from me as she was wont to do, whereas I would catch her up before she wandered too far, as was my wont. Instead, I felt such warmth on my face before I realized 'twas my wife's hands wrapped around it, her thumbs stroking my jaw so tenderly, I slowly reopened my eyes._

 _Her searing gaze waited, eyes glassy._

" _I am not angry at you, Edward." Her words erupted shakily yet strong. "Or rather, I am, but it shall pass when you ride away later this day. Nonetheless, I had to ask, or after you left, I would wonder if asking would have made a difference."_

" _Isabella…" My voice erupted in a strangled whisper. "This is why I did not want to…" Full of shame, I tried to pull away from her warm hold, for I did not deserve it. I did not deserve_ _ **her**_ _._

 _Yet, Isabella refused to loosen her hold. "Finish your thought, Edward: this is why you did not want to fall in love with me."_

 _What agonized me most was the lack of accusation in her tone. I cradled her face in return, wordlessly wiping the two rogue tears which slid down her cheeks, for I knew she would not want me to remark on them._

" _It does not mean I do not love you."_

" _I know," she snorted, nodding her head. "If your present fears be anything as mine, it means you have come to love me too much. For you see, 'tis why_ _ **I**_ _never thought to love, either; for I fully expected to rank second in my husband's esteem."_

" _Isabella," I said sharply._

 _Nevertheless, she continued. "In my society, 'tis expected a wife rank second to her husband's estate or to his king or even to his well-bred horse. And though I might have been required to surrender myself in marriage to such a man, I would not surrender my heart. Yet, there it be." Snorting again, she shrugged. "_ _ **I**_ _fell in love with a patriot, and I shall rank second to thirteen colonies. I suppose 'tis better than to a horse."_

" _That is not true, Isabella."_

"' _Tis_ _ **not**_ _better than to a horse?"_

 _I shook my head and chuckled. "You are a maddening hellion." When I pulled her flush against me, she did not resist. Instead, she wrapped her arms tightly around my waist and sighed heavily against my chest._

" _You still need a shave. I shall have you go nowhere in this woolly manner."_

" _Then let us return to the house. Isabella…" I pulled back to look at her beautiful face and swallowed, once more lost in her dark eyes. "You rank second to nothing and no one."_

 _For a long while, she held my gaze wordlessly._

OOOOOOOOOO

 **May 20, 1775 – Lake Champlain, Province of Quebec**

The waters of Lake Champlain are onyx in the moonlight; its inky surface ripples and flutters like a raven's wings, spreading wide in the dark chasm before soaring above and beyond.

Two dozen of Colonel Arnold's men, including myself, ramble about the Enterprise this eve, while the rest sail behind us in various _bateaux_ – as our French neighbors call them – as well as on the schooner, the second-largest ship in our captured fleet. She was formerly _Katherine_ when owned by British Captain Philip Skene of Fort Crown Point. Now, she is _Liberty_ , piloted by Captain Jasper Hale, and sailing back to Patriot-controlled Fort Ticonderoga to await further orders. Emmett and more of our men await, holding down the fort. How long this wait shall last, how much longer I shall be away from my wife, I do not know.

After yesterday's incident, I thought it wiser I remain aboard the Enterprise with Colonel Arnold to ensure he does not have a change of heart. Else, with the manner in which he fluctuates, we could easily end up giving chase to Allen and his men on their fool's errand. Meanwhile, I am quite aware Jasper is none too content with me. Perhaps 'tis better we are on separate ships for a spell.

I stand starboard, leaning one foot against the ship's mast as I stare out at the glowing moon. I wonder if she watches the silver orb as I, if she wonders as I whether I am watching it, if her thoughts turn as often and as senselessly to me as mine turn to her. And as I've often done in the weeks away from her, I recall our last night together, when we became husband and wife in the truest sense. I recall our final hours together the following day before I had to leave her…

 _The morning sun filtered through our chamber's windows and kindled my skin. Isabella's smooth strokes of the straight blade lulled me where I sat at the edge of our bed, her hand surprisingly and reassuringly steady. Every time she lifted the blade for cleaning, it made a tinkling sound as it struck the bowl's sides. Lather, shave, wash. Lather, shave, wash. Over and over, she repeated the process until it was as a lullaby easing me into a false sense of contentment built around the surreal belief that we could remain in our chamber endlessly._

 _I may have dozed, such was my serenity, for next, I recall her tender ministrations with the face cloth._

" _There," she proclaimed, a pleased smile on her beautiful face as she pulled back to admire her work. Her hand caressed me from cheek to jaw, further down to my neck and up to my other cheek. All the while, her eyes followed everywhere her hand stroked. "I have not seen your face so smoothly since before we married. You are a handsome man indeed, Edward."_

" _I am happy to know you still believe so, for I believe you the loveliest woman in existence."_

 _She smiled at me, but her eyes did not meet mine. With a long breath, I reached for her hand, threading our fingers as I pulled her to straddle my lap. She had removed her riding habit but remained in her plentiful undergarments._

" _We must discuss a few items, for time grows short."_

 _She nodded serenely, still not meeting my eyes. "Very well."_

" _I do not want you in town, Isabella, but this is your home, and you may invite anyone, including your father, to visit you at your leisure. I trust he is gentleman enough not to search through my drawers, and if he not be, I trust you to ensure he does not." I offered her a small smile, which she replied to with a smirk._

" _If I do not return-"_

 _Here, a ragged whimper escaped my wife, and infuriated at herself, she attempted to pull away, pressing her lips together tightly and glaring up at the ceiling when I would not release her._

" _Damnation," she choked._

" _Isabella, do not say such things, and look at me."_

" _I learnt it from you."_

" _I know you did," I whispered. "Now, look at me, for this is highly crucial, and we_ _ **must**_ _speak of the possibility."_

 _Her smooth neck moved with her thick swallow before she finally brought her eyes to mine, her features now inscrutable._

" _My father shall remain while we are gone, for he has political matters with which to contend. Either way, you are mistress of this land. If I do not return," I repeated in a whisper, watching her face remain unreadable, "Father has deeded the land to me, and when we married, I deeded it to you upon my death."_

 _She gasped quietly._

" _Our laws do not allow me to deed it to you unless I expire. Regardless, all is yours, Isabella. If I do not return, you may stay…or you may return to your father if you so desire. You have a choice."_

" _You will return," she insisted shakily._

 _I pushed on, for I had to._

" _If we have made a child-"_

" _Edward, stop." She clamped a hand over my mouth, nostrils flaring in a fury. Carefully, and with eyes on hers, I pulled her hand away from my mouth and held it tightly._

" _If we have made a child," I repeated slowly and clearly, "unless New Jersey colony or perhaps all the colonies dissolve into chaos, I beg you will stay, for I would wish him or her to grow up on this land, which has been in our family for generations." She looked at me like a deer stares at a musket. "Recall what you said yourself a fortnight ago: We are land rich. You and our child shall not be in want. Of course, if it be perilous for you and the child to remain, then the request is-"_

" _Edward, I pray you, please stop."_

" _Isabella, you_ _ **must**_ _hear this."_

" _I am_ _ **not**_ _with child."_

" _You do not know that."_

" _We spent one night in conjugal bliss." She dropped her head in embarrassment, but with my forefinger under her chin, I lifted her dark eyes back to mine._

"' _Tis all it takes," I said carefully. "You are aware of this, my love, are you not?"_

 _She nodded slowly. "Yes, I am aware, Edward, but truly, what are the possibilities?"_

 _In spite of the miserable topic, part of me wanted to chuckle at her naivete. She was so brave, so intelligent, and such an imp at times, that at times, I forgot she was also sheltered, innocent, and young. I slid my hands through her nape and released all those pins holding up her curls, watching as she shook them out of for me. Her hands gripped my shoulders while her covered legs cradled my thighs. Yes, she was naïve about some things, yet quite aware of others._

" _Isabella, my love, even with only one night, the possibility we've made a child is rather great. What is more, the possibility increases with every time I push myself inside you." I brought my hands forward to her soft face. "Which means, they shall increase all the more now." I breathed hard as she watched me silently, then I pulled her in so that I could rest my forehead against hers. "Isabella Cullen, I am a selfish creature," I growled, "and though I know I should not increase the possibility I may leave you not only a widow but a widow with child, I must have you once more before I leave."_

 _Still, she said nothing._

" _My love," I breathed, "may I lift your skirts?"_

" _Edward…" she inched closer so that her mouth brushed mine, "my skirts are already lifted, my love. I am seated astride you." She kissed me softly._

 _I shut my eyes and snorted. "Dear God, I do not deserve this woman. Isabella…may I lift you and place you where I ache for you?"_

 _An eternity seemed to transpire before she replied. "I beg you will, as I ache for you as well."_

 _With no other words, I gripped her hips firmly yet carefully and shifted her about so that when I lowered her again, I filled her._

 _We both cried out in a long, ragged breath, and I quickly began moving, pulling her down as I thrust upward. She caged my face between her hands and tightened her inner thighs around my outward thighs, using her hold as leverage with which to assist me. She said my name, her mouth on mine, encouraging me with her endearments. For a moment, I thought of her riding her mare that morning and whispering endearments, stroking its mane._

 _We had not made love in that manner as of yet, and I penetrated her completely and all at once. Therefore, I did not last long. I dug my hands deep within the folds of her skirts and gripped her bare backside before crying out against her mouth and releasing in a shuddering breath._

" _Isabella…" I gasped, over and over. "Isabella."_

 _Afterward, I held her prone to my chest, my face buried in her neck as my quickly beating heart raced against her equally furious one._

" _Isabella, you need not leave the room to wave me away. I would rather leave you here, warm and comfortable in our chambers."_

 _She nodded languidly. "Very well, Edward."_

 _Less than an hour later, after my wife and I said our farewell, I stood outside readying Aro for our long ride. Emmett had ridden his wife home. Duncan had said his farewells to his daughter. Jasper left his own house in order, and Jacob said quiet goodbyes to Leah. Now, at the end of the field, they all awaited me._

 _When in my periphery I saw skirts fluttering in the breeze as a figure emerged from the house, my head shot up swiftly, fighting back senseless disappointment at the sight of_ _Mrs. Clearwater, who emerged with a few, last-minute provisions. 'Twas inane to feel dissatisfied, when I was the one who asked her to remain in our chambers and when we had already said all there was to say._

 _Once I packed away the oatcakes, cheese, and salted pork, Mrs. Clearwater patted my cheek._

" _You are a good man."_

" _That means much from you, Mrs. Clearwater, for you are as my mother."_

 _Her eyes glistened, and she wrapped her arms around my waist quickly before just as quickly unwrapping them and sprinting back into the house._

 _Father approached and shook my hand while simultaneously patting my shoulder._

" _Good luck, son. Do not allow household concerns to distract you. All will be well. I shall look after everything and everyone…including your young wife."_

" _Thank you, Father. I shall see you soon."_

" _I shall see you soon, Edward."_

 _My eyes shifted upward to our chamber window, and I forced down all the more frustration at the lowered shade with absolutely no disruption, no one there waving or even glowering. With a deep breath, I mounted Aro and turned him toward the end of the field._

" _Edward!"_

 _I saw nothing as I jumped off Aro and ran toward her voice; nothing until I lifted her into my arms, and all I saw was her._

" _Isabella, I do not want to leave you. 'Tis the worst possible time, for so many reasons," I said in a strangled rush. "I swear to you if I could find another way-"_

 _When she spoke, when I looked into her dark eyes, there was no such weakness about her._

" _You shall return to me, Edward Cullen; nevertheless, should the unspeakable come to pass, know this: I love you, and I shall never leave the home in which I was loved by you in return. And if you leave me with child, I shall count it a blessing and raise him on his father's land. So, with this knowledge, be easy on your travels."_

 _Throughout her speech, I shook my head back and forth in amazement, my nostrils flaring with unfathomable respect and emotion._

 _I slid my hands around her nape._ " _I have been granted the strongest of women. Know this, Isabella Cullen: I love you as well, and I do not regret you, and you shall never rank second in my heart."_

 _She chuckled. "Tis good to know. I shall rest easier as well, and I shall see you soon, husband."_

" _I shall see you soon, wife."_

 _OOOOOOOOOO_

"Captain Cullen."

I look over my shoulder and watch Colonel Arnold approach. He stands at my side, gripping the railing as I do, his gaze on the dark waters.

"I would like to thank you for your advice yesterday."

"No thanks be necessary, Colonel."

"I am aware it went against Captain Hale's advice, but I believe you be correct." He pauses. "I know not if you are aware, but after the events of last month, the Massachusetts Provincial Congress has proposed the raising of one, cohesive, colonial army in addition to the militias we now have."

I look at him. "One colonial army? I was not aware; though, I do know 'twas discussed at the Congress in Philadelphia, for my father was in attendance."

Arnold nods slowly. "They are to call a second congress soon and vote on the proposition, which is expected to pass. They shall select a commander and generals under him."

I grin at Arnold. "Plan you to be one of those generals?"

He chuckles. "Not quite yet, but…yes, I would like to work my way up the ranks in this proposed Continental Army. And…" he lays a hand on my shoulder, "I believe a level-head will serve me better than a furious one. So, once again, I thank you," says he, "and I shall not forget you or the rest of the men with which we now serve if I should-"

"Why do you thank him, Colonel, when he does what he does only to return sooner to his loyalist wife?"

Arnold and I both turn at once, finding Duncan, the old fool, behind us. Every hair on my scalp raises on ends in my fury.

"I have warned you, Duncan, more than once, of speaking disparagingly of my wife."

"What nonsense **do** you speak, Mr. McCarty?"

The fire I feel burning in my gaze leaves Duncan speechless, while Arnold's eyes shift back and forth between us.

"Captain Cullen, your wife be Loyalist?" Colonel Arnold's voice is low, and also incredulous and horrified.

Duncan swiftly drops his eyes to his feet, cowardly scum he be. At that moment, 'tis almost all I can do to recall he is a fellow Son of Liberty and sire to one of the best men I have known. These are the thoughts which prevent me from throwing him into the black, murky waters of Lake Champlain. Instead, I return my eyes to the dark lake, and I reply to Arnold's inquiry in as steady a manner as I can manage.

"Colonel Arnold, we are here for one purpose and one purpose only. I shall not discuss my wife or any part of my marriage, for it be no business of yours or anyone else here."

"But Edward…" When he uses my Christian name as I used his the day before, I know 'tis meant to be a sign of the friendship and camaraderie grown between us these past few weeks; of the trust developed as a result of our side-by-side struggle. "If this be true…" he whispers the rest, "well, you must see how your marriage to a loyalist woman endangers our cause."

"Benedict," I reply through gritted teeth, "I see no such thing. My wife is loyal to me as I am to her. That is all which matters, and it is all I shall say of my wife or my marriage."

In my periphery, I see his eyes on me. "Out of respect for you, Captain Cullen, and because in these past weeks, I have set my life on your loyalty, and would do so again in an instant, I shall say nothing to our fellow brothers regarding what I have learned."

"I ask for no such concession," I spit in a fury.

"Yet, you have it." He turns swiftly toward Duncan. "And you Mr. McCarty, out of respect for your son, who be another great man in this Cause, I shall not throw you in the ship's jail for insubordination. But, be warned: I order you to watch your mouth and never speak of this," he hisses.

Benedict Arnold returns his attention to me. "Captain Cullen, I only beg you to beware who knows of this, and…and to beware what you say in front of your loyalist wife."

My hands grip the railing tightly lest I do something which will forever keep me from Isabella.

"Colonel Arnold, out of my own respect for you, and out of a desire not to hang for insubordination, I ask you to quit this, for if you insult my wife once more, I shall be forced to run you through."

My speech is insubordination itself. Nevertheless, Arnold simply snorts, and when he speaks, I feel his gaze still on me.

"Very well, I shall put an end to the subject, and only say one more thing: God help the man who falls so deeply in love with a woman he is willing to risk life, limbs, and country."

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **Early Happy Mother's Day wishes to all the moms around the world! Enjoy!**

 **"See" you all sometime next week. :)**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**


	16. Ch 15 - The Incident in the Stables

**A/N: Good morning! Here's a surprise Friday posting. As usually happens with me, the chapter grew long, and since shit is about to get real, I've split it in two. Therefore, here's the first part. The second part will post next week. :)**

 **Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to history or to me.**

* * *

 **Chapter 15 – The Incident in the Stables**

June 15, 1775 – Cullen House Hill, Freehold, New Jersey Colony

The cock crows for the third and final time, and I open my eyes to a new morn.

The shuttered windows leave our chambers bathed in darkness save for the minor glow of the fireplace's dying embers. He is crouched next to the hearth, fully undressed as he places another log within. The fire roars, and as he stares at it, I study his profile, which is now bathed in a golden glow. The copper strands in his hair are further intensified by the fire. His nose is straight and regal, his jaw angular and strong. My eyes trail to his broad shoulders and sinewy arms, further to his firm torso, and down to his long, muscular legs.

Finally, he swivels his head and meets my eyes. His mouth forms a grin, yet no words escape from between his lips.

"You are not truly here, are you?" I whisper into the quiet of the room.

He does not reply. Instead, he fades like the dawn mist dispersed by the rising sun. And as the fireplace is no longer lit in mid-June, the golden glow fades as well, the room grows cold, and I am left in total darkness.

OOOOOOOOOO

"Ahh, 'tis a lovely, mid-month morn. The birds sing their happy songs, and Mother Nature smiles upon your hills and meadows; does she not, Mrs. Cullen?"

"I suppose she does."

"Believe you it shall be as warm as yesterday?"

"I believe it might."

My eyes scan the early morning horizon, which does indeed promise a bright sun for the day, shining its rays upon the verdant and ripe land. Far off on the outskirts of the cornfield, Papa Carlisle sits atop his horse, in deep discussion with Seth, who is in charge of harvesting while Jacob is away. Papa Carlisle must see or sense Rosalie and me in his periphery. He turns, and when he spots us, his hand waves heartily from side to side, while a full grin spreads across his face. I return both with much less spirit than he.

He rides toward us.

"A good morning, Isabella, Rosalie."

"Good morning, Papa Carlisle."

"Good morning, sir."

"I am glad to see you both early, for I have news."

My breath hitches quietly. "From Edward and the rest?"

He offers me a sympathetic smile. "No, my dear, not from Edward nor the rest. Unfortunately," he says, swallowing, "I must away to Trenton this morn. There are…political matters we must discuss. I have known of the possibility I would have to leave before Edward's return, and so I have made preparations on the farm. Yet…I am not happy to leave you."

"Be easy. We shall be well, Papa," I assure him.

"Yes, we shall," Rosalie confirms. "How long shall you be away?"

"I am not sure. Perhaps a week. Seth and the rest of the men shall be here should there be trouble."

I nod wordlessly, for I know from where he would expect trouble to originate.

"Your father visits you today, Isabella, correct?" he asks, reading my mind.

"Yes, sir," I confirm.

"Well, I suppose 'tis convenient I should leave, then. But recall Edward does not want you in town. Please ensure you stay on Cullen land."

With a breath through my nostrils and a stiff nod, I acquiesce. When father has visited in the past, Carlisle has made himself scarce; though, I know he has not been far, for he arrives quickly once Father leaves. I am certain he has instructed Seth and his men to remain close throughout my father's visit, to keep a close eye on me.

"Are you well, Isabella? I notice you are somewhat subdued this morning." Rosalie enquires this once Papa Carlisle has ridden away.

"Am I? I suppose I am somewhat fatigued, for I did not sleep well."

"Why not? Do you miss the warmth of your husband's body next to yours in the evenings?"

In the past weeks, I have learnt Rosalie McCarty is the happy possessor of a very dry, very sardonic sort of humor. In all truthfulness, 'tis quite similar to mine, though perhaps of a crasser nature, for she is of lower breeding. Moreover, she finds few subjects and even fewer questions off limits. She reminds me somewhat of Mary Alice, for both are beautiful and intelligent. Yet, whereas Rosalie is tall, flaxen-haired, and a patriot of low birth, Mary Alice is petite, raven-haired, and of the same privileged background as I.

Nevertheless, Rosalie McCarty is perhaps the most intelligent woman I have ever come across.

"My husband and I did not have many nights together before his sudden departure, as you are well aware, _Mrs. McCarty_. Therefore, 'tis quite unlikely I grew accustomed to his nightly presence by my side."

"Yet, you did; did you not?"

Also, she does not lack insight.

I do not immediately reply, which is reply in and of itself. Instead, I gaze straight ahead at the rich, hilly meadow before us, resplendent with wildflowers in varying colors and interspersed with natural copses and shrubbery.

"They have been away for almost two months."

"I am aware."

"With not a letter."

Now she does not reply.

We ramble about atop our respective horses on the hill west of my husband's…of my land. It has become somewhat of a habit of ours these past weeks, our aimless excursions, for she visits almost daily.

"I see him every morn upon opening my eyes. Sometimes, he is feeding the fire to keep us warm. Sometimes, he is by the window, pushing back the shades to ensure no one be afoot to cause us harm. Sometimes…he is by my side. Strange, is it not?"

"Strangely enough, 'tis the peculiar which is sometimes the most understandable," she says after a period of silence in which only a blue jays' fluttering wings and a scarlet cardinal's song make a sound. "'Tis the unexpected which does not surprise."

"You wax quite eloquently on philosophy for a mere, colonial midwife."

"And your talent for riding is quite pitiful for such a well-bred young lady."

Sometimes we stroll about on foot, exploring the woodlands behind my home, where she picks various plants and herbs and expounds on their medicinal properties in her field of expertise.

" _You make a salve with this herb for when a babe's head is too large, and so you rub this salve on the mother's…"_

" _Ah, observe, Isabella. This plant be wonderful for…."_

I only vaguely listen.

Other times, 'tis she who takes up the duty of instructing me in riding during my husband's absence.

" _Isabella dearest, this is more than enough of this side-saddle business," said she one morn less than a fortnight after our husbands' departure. "We do not partake in many fox-runs 'round these parts, where such elegant riding by well-bred ladies be necessary. 'Round these parts, we ride a horse as opposed to a carriage when we mean to arrive with the utmost haste, as when a mother is ready to birth a newborn. Haste demands you ride astride. Now part those legs, Mrs. Cullen, for if your husband be anything like mine, I am sure he did not depart before ensuring you straddled a beast."_

 _I furrowed my brow in puzzlement. "Edward did not teach me how to ride astride before he left. Rather, when he and I rode together, I rode…_

 _She laughed heartily when I trailed off as her meaning became clear. Nevertheless, I lifted my chin as I replied._

" _My husband is no beast, Rosalie McCarty."_

 _She merely laughed all the harder. "Then, more's the pity."_

Since Edward's departure for part's unknown, Rosalie, Papa Carlisle, and Mrs. Clearwater ensure I am continuously occupied in one endeavor or another. Whether it be to keep me from boredom or because they fear should I have no occupation, I shall run off and inform Father and his regiment that my husband and his friends are off on a rebel mission, I know not.

I shake my head imperceptibly, for I do not truly believe they fear such a thing – not any longer.

"Well, what say you, Isabella?" Rosalie asks, breaking me out of my reverie. "Shall this be the morn we ride on into the orchards?"

Distracted as I am, I only now realize we indeed come upon the blooming apple trees; one of the last places I traversed on horseback with my husband before he left.

"No." I shake my head decisively. "No, Rosalie. We shall not wander into the orchards."

She is silent for a few seconds. "Very well."

I reach out and stroke my mare's chestnut mane, to which Hope replies with a gentle whinny and with a dramatic shake of her head, which makes me laugh despite the day's concerns. Hope is one of the delights of my days. She is my darling, my treasured gift. Every morn, I rush through the fast-breaking so I may get to her as quickly as possible, whether to ride her or just to visit with her. I visit her in the evenings as well and spend a considerable time attending to her mane and her needs, though I know the grooms have already done so.

"When the apples are ready, I shall feed you handfuls of them every day," I promise her quietly. Then, I side-eye Rosalie. "And to Mrs. McCarty, I shall give none."

Rosalie snorts. "I am glad to know at least your horse shall be allowed near those apples."

On this subject, she does not tease more, for as I said, Rosalie is neither short-sighted nor simple-minded. She knows I shall not ride into the orchards until my husband's return. They are _our_ orchards, the place where – apart from our chambers – we have shared our most tender moments.

"As you insist on keeping us from the orchards still this morn, let us return to the house and assist Leah and Mrs. Clearwater with the preparations for the midday meal. Perhaps a repast shall return your good humor."

And with that, she kicks her heel into her horse's side and expertly turns him about, and gently doing the same to Hope, I follow.

OOOOOOOOOO

"I am anxious about my father's visit this afternoon," I admit.

"'Tis not the first time he visits you," Rosalie says.

We are in the kitchen, and as I speak of Father, I simultaneously wonder what he would think if he saw me as I am now: not only in a kitchen but assisting in the preparation of the meal. While Leah sits at one end of the rough, wooden table chopping various vegetables, Mrs. Clearwater stirs the pot in the hearth. Rosalie sits close to me, pounding the dough while attempting instruction.

"No, Isabella, not with merely the tips of your fingers. For the love of- observe: Pretend 'tis your husband before you, and you are releasing your frustrations at having been abandoned by him so soon after your vows." She pounds as if she is attempting to kill the concoction.

Mrs. Clearwater's breath hitches wildly as she turns away from the pot to look at us. "Mistress McCarty, I beg you do not tease my mistress so! What is more, neither the young master nor any of our men would have left had they had-"

"Had they had any other choice. Yes, yes, Mrs. Clearwater. You are correct, and you are the epitome of a great, patriot woman. I, on the other hand, am being a horrible example to Isabella of a good, patriot wife. I shall apologize, and I shall refrain…for now."

Rosalie's reply holds mockery, yet her tone is playful. She chuckles and stands, making her way to Mrs. Clearwater and wrapping her arms around her shoulders. As Mrs. Clearwater smiles up at her warmly, I attempt to conceal the slight shock I sometimes still experience at such familiarity; though, day by day, I become more accustomed to such displays.

"Do not overly concern yourself, Mrs. Clearwater," I say. "In these past weeks, I have learnt Mrs. McCarty greatly enjoys the sound of her own voice."

Leah chuckles heartily, glancing up sheepishly between Rosalie and I as she does to see if she shall receive a scolding, but I have also learnt in these past weeks that Mrs. Clearwater and Leah are afforded more leeway to express themselves than are any household servants I have ever encountered.

"Now," Rosalie says, taking her seat once more, and having given up on my abilities, taking up the duty of dough pounding on her own, "tell me what concerns you regarding your father's visit. I know it cannot be the meal, for Mrs. Clearwater prepares a feast this late morn!"

"I shall have no one say I do not take care of my mistress properly nor that she must go without now she be Mrs. Cullen."

Mrs. Clearwater sniffs the words. I have found also, she is not fond of redcoats, and when Father visits, though she is the exemplary, respectful and able housekeeper, she merely tolerates his presence out of respect for me.

"No one shall ever say such, Mrs. Clearwater. My father is observant, and I am sure he has noted what a fine house you keep and what a fine meal you prepare."

I attempt to reassure her with a smile, for I respect her as well. I may even hold her in affection.

"Hmph," the lady replies. "I happily do so for you, Mistress, for this be _your_ home, and its care reflects on you, and I will have no one say _you_ do not keep one properly."

The rest is implied. _I do not do so to impress_ _your red-coated father._

Rosalie chuckles. "Well, Isabella, we are waiting."

Drawing in a deep breath, I exhale long and deep. "As I said, my father is observant, and…'tis difficult for me to tell him the half-truths I must."

"Half-truths?"

"Half-truths I must tell him, for whole lies I have not learned to tell him. He knows me too well. When he was here last, he asked me where my husband and his friends were gone so long to take care of their farmers' business. As Edward and I planned before he left, for he knows my difficulty in lying to Father, I have told him they are off further north, ensuring the farm's interests, which is, in its own way, not an untruth."

"Wherein be the issue, then?"

"The issue is that my father is not the sort to be satisfied with such vagueness. He is a curious sort."

"Which explains why he sired a daughter who would sneak into a tavern," she says.

I purse my lips. "Regardless. When he questioned further, I replied I did not know the particulars."

"And?"

"And as you just pointed out, I am the sort willing to sneak into taverns when I am curious. My not knowing particulars is not something my father is accustomed to from me."

For a long moment, Rosalie holds my gaze; her white-floured hands pause atop what shall be our bread.

"I shall tease you no more on the subject, dearest," she says genuinely, "for it be an important one, and I know it be a difficulty, which I do not envy you. You are torn between your father and your husband," – she offers me a sympathetic smile before sighing – "and they despise one another. I cannot even claim it shall get easier, for I fear…I fear it may get all the more difficult. All I can offer you is a small piece of advice."

"Which is?"

"Learn to lie to your father, Isabella, not merely tell him half-truths. It may be the only way you keep peace in your own household, at the very least."

With that, she returns to her bread-making, Mrs. Clearwater turns back silently to the hearth, and Leah returns to chopping vegetables.

OOOOOOOOOO

"I am off," says Rosalie when she finds me in the stables with Hope, brushing her soft mane. "Mrs. Spencer awaits me in town."

"Is it safe for you in town?"

"'Tis safe enough. Those patriots in town respect me greatly as Emmett's wife, and those loyalists in town fear me greatly as Emmett's wife. And with the continuing siege in Boston, many of those who enjoy a good fight are away in any case. Regardless, I have no choice. Mrs. Spencer's child will not wait until Freehold Township's divisions are resolved."

"How has she not birthed _yet_?" I ask. "You have been visiting her daily for above a week."

"In truth, that child should have arrived into this world almost a fortnight ago. I do believe it plans to take up permanent residence in its mother's womb. Yet this is how these firstborns sometimes behave."

I chuckle heartily, as does she.

"In all seriousness, if the child does not come soon on its own, I shall resort to an herbal tea which shall, unfortunately, make the birthing itself more painful for Mrs. Spencer. Yet, better painful childbirth than stillbirth or even..."

She does not finish the thought, for as women, we all know how childbirth can end for us. Instead, Rosalie tilts her head and studies me.

"Are you sure you would not like to accompany me to observe?"

"Do not forget I have my father's visit this afternoon."

"A convenient excuse."

Again, I chuckle. "Why does your sister-in-law never accompany you? She is staying with you while the men are away, is she not?"

She rolls her eyes, reaching out to pat Hope's chest. Hope revels in the attention, and Rosalie's warmth toward my mare warms me toward her all the more. She may be crude, but there is a gentleness about her which no gently-bred lady of my acquaintance can claim to have in more abundance.

"Why she does not accompany me here, I believe you know without my having to explain in detail. Why she does not accompany me in midwifery…Isabella, Katrina is my sister-in-law, and therefore, I must love her as such. Yet, the truth of it is she does not possess the tenderness required of a woman assisting another woman."

"And you believe I possess this tenderness?"

She merely grins. "I believe you do not know yourself well yet, but you are young still. Now, before I depart, tell me what more bothers you these past few days. I know it be more than your father's visit…" she swallows, and the next words she speaks are one of the reasons why, since my husband's absence, she has become dear to me, "and I know it be more than the loneliness we feel at our husbands' absence."

I turn my gaze to my mare. "I received a letter from New York a few days ago, from my good friend, Mary Alice Brandon."

Rosalie continues stroking Hope, while I keep brushing her mane. The mare be verily in heaven, I believe.

"Yes, you have mentioned her, and you have read me a few lines from her letters which cause me to suspect I might have liked her more than I like you."

"Quite likely," I agree. "Much like you, at times, Mary Alice acts without thought."

"This from the woman who snuck into a tavern!" Rosalie laughs.

"Damnation, shall you ever allow that to pass? Nevertheless, she, like my husband and yourself, do not stop to think of the hardships these colonies would face without the crown to protect us and provide for us."

"Ha!" When Hope startles at her outburst, I glare at Rosalie. "Better hardships of our own than those forced upon us by tyrants," she hisses at a more acceptable volume.

"Mary Alice also forgets that should the colonies gain their freedom from England, she and I and the rest like us, disliked as Loyalists now, would be positively abhorred as traitors then, and only Lord above knows what would be our fate."

"I shall take that chance."

Again, I glower at her.

"I tease you, Isabella. Truly, what bothers you about Mary Alice's latest missive?"

"Much." With a sigh, I set down the brush and pull the letter out from my skirt's pocket, for I have been carrying it with me since I received it. "I pray you listen to this."

 _As I have written previously, since the fighting at Lexington and Concorde in the colony of Massachusetts, New York Colony has been in an uproar. More specifically, we here in Manhattan Island see protests almost daily. Word has also filtered down from further up north, that colonial rebels have captured and secured Fort Ticonderoga as well as a series of smaller forts along Lake Champlain, and that efforts are underway to turn the French-speaking colonists in Quebec Province to the patriot side of this growing conflict._

 _Now, in the midst of all these events, there was an assemblage early last month, near the harbor, where a group of about six or seven thousand gathered to hear a man named Isaac Low. He beseeched this group to sign an Association declaring the following: 'We...do in the most solemn manner, resolve never to become slaves; and do associate, under all the ties of religion, honour, and love to our country to adopt...whatever measures may be recommended by the Continental Congress, or resolved upon by our Provincial Convention, for the purpose of preserving our Constitution and opposing the execution of the several arbitrary and oppressive Acts of the British Parliament.'_

 _Isabella, somehow,_ _ **I**_ _was part of this assembled crowd, and somehow, my signature ended up on this document.'_

" _Somehow_ ," Rosalie scoffs. "I do believe I love your friend."

"For obvious purposes, she pretends she knows not what she does. Now, hush, and listen."

 _Nothing did come of this document for, with the ongoing siege in Boston, our wonderful crown-appointed leaders are terrified that New York Harbor should suffer the same fate. Nevertheless, this is how the royal government repays our moderate rebels: two large warships arrived in New York Harbor a fortnight ago, the_ _ **Asia**_ _and the_ _ **Kingfisher**_ _. They are awe-inspiring and terrifying sights, indeed, Isabella, and the sight of their plentiful cannons pointed straight at our homes and businesses greets us every morn. Now, the rebel leaders say not a word, as I am sure was the intent._

For a handful of seconds, she pauses in her ministrations to my mare. "Those motherless red…" she trails off. "I shall withhold the rest, for I do not want to offend your father in your presence."

"I thank you for your consideration. Do you think Papa Carlisle knows of all this?"

"Of course, he does, Isabella. 'Tis likely why they meet in Trenton. Is there more?"

I nod slowly, and with a deep breath, I continue.

 _Unfortunately, Isabella, my father learnt lately of my offense toward the crown in signing Mr. Low's useless document. He ranted and raved at my stupidity, not merely for the fact that I had betrayed our king but for the fact that as a woman, my signature meant nothing at any rate. Nevertheless, something wonderful has come of this._

 _Wish me joy, Isabella, for my father has decided I am to be wed, and you shall never guess to whom? Since you shall not guess, and we are too far apart to play such games, I shall simply tell you: I am to marry Lieutenant John Andre. Yes,_ _ **that**_ _Lieutenant John Andre._

 _Isabella, as my closest confidante, I am sure you can only imagine my delight in such a plan – I, who have not only dreamt of marrying a British officer but one such as John Andre. Father has worked hard at finding me just the right one, and my strong feelings toward my sire are indescribable. So now, nothing is left but for me to count down the days until I should become Mrs. Andre, and his loyalties shall become my loyalties, just as Father wishes. Mary Alice Brandon and all her inane beliefs shall cease to exist in favor of the righteousness of our King. God save King George._

"Do not even say such a thing while reading it from a letter," Rosalie growls, shuddering in disgust.

I roll my eyes and continue the letter.

 _But enough of me, how goes your wedded bliss with your colonial farmer?_

"The rest has none to do with the subject at hand," say I, setting down the missive.

"Who is Lieutenant John Andre?"

"He is a very young, very handsome, and very well-educated young officer in our British army, stationed on Manhattan Island. Since his arrival from London about four years ago, his popularity among the young women of marrying age in New York society has grown with each passing season. Though, he is more popular with the mothers concerned with a handsome face and the size of a gentleman's...ahem, shoulders than with the fathers concerned with the size of gentleman's estate. He has quite a talent for drawing silhouettes, a beautiful singing voice, and a gift for writing poetry."

Here, I pause and look away from her, instead focusing on Hope in an attempt to hide an irrepressible smile.

Nevertheless, Rosalie chuckles knowingly. "Why do I get the impression you were the happy focus of a few of his talents?"

Lifting a brow, I shift my eyes back to Rosalie. "During a card party at the home of a fellow acquaintance, John captured my likeness quite prettily in one of his silhouettes. Then, his eyes continually found mine as he sang a lovely ballad. The next day, he personally delivered a few, rhyming verses to me; verses which would have made many a young lady blush and swoon right off her feet."

"And right onto her back, I would wager," Rosalie snickers. "Tell me, how did you react?"

"I thanked him and served him a cup of tea," I smirk.

Her ensuing chortle is embarrassingly loud – and amusingly unladylike. "How did you resist him if he be as perfect as you claim?"

"Oh, I never claimed him perfect. I found him quite arrogant, and I could not abide his plentiful platitudes for more than a handful of minutes at a time. Even one's vanity can only take so much stroking, which is perhaps what attracted me so to my husband, for a vanity-stroker he is not."

I muse the last words quietly then quickly shake off the thought, deciding 'tis a subject I may examine more closely and at leisure while alone in my marital bed that evening.

"What is more," I continue, "even had I been more inclined toward John, my father was one of those aforementioned fathers less than impressed by his financial status. Therefore, a few minutes by my side was all he was allowed. Both Father and I ensured such."

Throughout this entire speech, Rosalie's laughter swells and swells until Hope is whinnying with her, and I am sure the entire township of Freehold must hear them both.

"I almost pity Edward when he finally figures out how much of a rebel you truly be. And this John Andre is now to marry your friend, Mary Alice?"

"Aye," I nod miserably. "And there be the concern. You see, he is the last sort of man to which Mary Alice would ever choose to be tied: a British officer as in love with himself and his many talents as he is likely ever to love anything or anyone. And the fact that her father is allowing it – nay, forcing it likely because no other officer would marry her after she signed such a document…no, Mary Alice would not choose this."

Once again, as the previous morn, I am attacked by such a strange bubbling of emotion that I choke on the last words, made so nauseous by my thoughts...so nauseous I actually begin to heave and must quickly run out of the stables before Mrs. Clearwater's wonderful repast abandons me.

Outdoors now, bent over as the last of nausea cedes, I feel Rosalie stroke my back much in the manner she stroked Hope a short while earlier.

"Are you well?" she asks in the tender voice she uses when she is not teasing.

"Yes." I draw in a breath of fresh, meadow air and straighten my back, my gaze on the corn fields just below the house. "Yes, I am well now. I have felt this way every morn since I received this letter. It has upset me most prodigiously."

"So, I see," Rosalie says quietly. For a few moments, she says nothing more.

"'Tis bad news indeed all over that letter. And 'tis unfortunate your friend must marry a man she shall likely detest, especially if her inclinations bend toward our colonies' freedom, but what can you do, Isabella?"

"I plan to speak with Father of it today. He knows Mary Alice's father well, and perhaps he might persuade him to break off the engagement."

"Do you think it likely your father will intercede?"

I do not reply right away. "No. But I must try."

In my periphery, I see Rosalie nod slowly. "Isabella, I see this weighs on you. Nevertheless, current circumstances notwithstanding, you seem to have more than accepted your unexpected marriage but rather embraced it. Perhaps Mary Alice-"

"No." I shake my head. "No, Rosalie. She will never find happiness, nay; she will never find _peace_ tied to a man such as John."

Again, she is silent for some moments. "I would rather you not overly concern yourself so early on, but I suppose, with our world in the turmoil in which it currently finds itself, and with such turmoil likely to worsen, your time will be ripe with concerns." She sighs. "It shall likely do no harm, in either case; though I would have preferred serenity for you."

I turn to her with a furrowed brow. "Of what do you speak, Rosalie? My time? My time in what?"

Her blue eyes hold mine carefully, while her mouth forms one of her gentler smiles. "Isabella, have you not noted it, dearest?" When she snorts, 'tis tenderly done, and her hand reaches up to push a stray curl behind my ear. "I suppose not. As I said, you are young, and you have had no mother since you were younger still, and your husband has not had much opportunity to-"

"Of what do you speak?" I repeat.

"Isabella," she whispers, her eyes searching mine, "when was the last time you had your courses?"

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **Have a good weekend, and again, Happy Mother's Day to all moms all over the world, whether you celebrate the day or not. :)**

" **See" you next week!**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**


	17. Ch 16 - The Incident in Town

**A/N: Good afternoon! I apologize if there are any blatant errors. As I write this, my college-aged daughter is begging me to help her with her final Spanish assignment, lol.**

 **Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to history or to me.**

* * *

 **Chapter 16 – The Incident in Town**

"Shall I pour the tea now, Mistress?"

"I thank you, Mrs. Clearwater, but I have it in hand."

Considering the topic I should like to discuss with my father this afternoon, 'tis better if _I_ serve what passes for tea in this household. Therefore, I rise from my seat at the small, round table for two so that I may take the tea tray from Mrs. Clearwater.

The tea set itself is pure loveliness: ivory porcelain with finely-detailed, blue-inked portrayals. A family of four walks in a meadow while cherubs float unseen above them. A coat-of-arms is painted in the middle of each piece. 'Tis my husband's dead mother's Dutch coat-of-arms, for the set – which only makes appearances on Father's visits – was my dead mother-in-law's set and her mother's set before that. The entire depiction is further framed within an intricate design of flowers, butterflies, and whimsical, circular patterns.

Aye, Mrs. Clearwater shall go to great lengths to demonstrate to Father that born-and-bred colonists are as elegant and capable of preparing a midday feast as any British or Loyalist household. Nevertheless, the lady draws the line at serving English tea.

Our table has been situated under an old, giant oak which grows a few yards from the house. The oak's massive branches spread out like an elaborate spider's web, while its jade foliage plays the part of the prey caught in a complex labyrinth. This entangled canopy is what shields us from the sun's vibrant rays as they cut through the late afternoon air. I have noted these huge sorts of oak trees grow quite freely here in New Jersey colony.

All in all, 'tis a beautiful afternoon. Birds flutter from branch to branch above us and serenade us with their happy calls. Accompanied by the feast Mrs. Clearwater prepared for Father's visit, it has been, so far, a pleasant time.

Yet, as I pour from the teapot, I must control the quiver of my hands and the churn of my stomach, for the delicious biscuits I recently consumed threaten to rise back to my throat. As I press together my lips to keep them down, I cannot determine if 'tis due to the topic I shall broach with Father or if 'tis due to those suspicions Rosalie shared with me earlier. Thankfully, as I set down the teapot, the nauseous sensation recedes.

"Shall I clear the dishes, Mistress?"

"Do not overly concern yourself, Mrs. Clearwater, for we are quite well," I assure her. "Are we not quite well, Father?"

"Aye, quite well, indeed."

What I attempt to prompt is Father's acknowledgment of the wonderful repast he has just been served. Nevertheless, as I hand him dish and teacup, he smiles at _me_ and thanks _me_ as if the true preparer of our feast does not stand right beside us.

Turning to Mrs. Clearwater, I rest a hand on her forearm.

"Mrs. Clearwater, on behalf of my father and I, I thank you for a wonderful and delicious meal. Now, I beg you would go inside the house and take your own meal. 'Tis too hot for you to merely stand here."

"I do not mind, Mistress Cullen. The dishes must be cleared so that you and your father may enjoy your tea."

"I _do_ mind," I say decisively. "I should not forgive myself if you suffer a stroke of heat to relieve us of a dirty dish. Please, do go inside."

"Very well, Mistress Cullen. If you insist."

When she smiles at me with open affection, I feel rather than see Father's gaze on me. As I pour my own tea and retake my seat, he further watches me, waiting for me to lift the teacup to my lips before he does the same. After a slow sip, his mustache twitches, and he finally speaks.

"I have just been taken to task by my daughter, have I not?"

"Of course not, Father." I smile innocently. "I would never do you the discourtesy, for I am sure, given sufficient time, you would have expressed your gratitude on your own."

He lifts a brow high and smirks but says nothing further on the subject. As he takes another sip, he grimaces and sets down his teacup, rattling the dish below it. When he wipes each corner of his mouth with his tablecloth, I know he is done, and my time to speak has arrived. With a breath through narrowed lips, I open my mouth to begin.

"Isabella, I have told you I can bring you real tea next time if you wish. You should not be limited to merely this strange, yellowish concoction."

Like the coward I am, I take the reprieve.

"Oh, I am not limited at all, Father. We boil many concoctions into tea 'round here. This particular one is called _chamomile_. The herb grows wild in our cornfields in pretty, white and yellow blooms. See them there?" My eyes pan away from Father and to the rich fields of corn currently being harvested. "Besides its lovely, apple-like taste, Rosalie McCarty informs me it has a host of medicinal properties as well, from aid in digestive ailments to aid with sleeping ailments."

Rosalie has also told me of one other of chamomile's uses. Just this late morning before departing, she harvested a few of the flowers, informing me she would be serving a tall cup of the tea to Mrs. Spencer in an attempt to bring on those pangs of labor which move a child along its mother's womb. For this reason, she then warned _me_ not to have more than two or three sips of it in one day; at least, not until we know definitively, one way or the other.

"Daughter, with each passing visit, you sound more and more like a colonial wife." Father's declaration breaks me out of my thoughts. "You are more outspoken than ever and knowledgeable of the strangest things," he further muses.

"Why, thank you, Father."

I am aware 'twas not exactly meant as a compliment. Perhaps now I have been rashly disrespectful with my satirical tongue, for when I return my eyes to him, he watches me with a frown.

"My offer of real, English tea stands, Isabella."

'Tis true I enjoy the chamomile tea. However, 'twould be an untruth to say I do not miss proper, strong, English tea. Yet, if I were to ever allow English tea into this household, I might as well shout "God save the King," in the middle of the fields and forfeit any right to surprise at the ensuing consequences.

"'Tis not necessary, sir…but, I thank you," I add, for I cannot afford to irritate my father this afternoon. As I clear my throat, so does Father.

"Isabella, we have more important concerns-"

"Father, there is something-"

He smiles. "Proceed first, Isabella."

"No, no, Father. You must proceed first; I insist." Aye, I am a coward of the worst kind.

He tilts his head in consideration and then offers me a slight nod. "Very well. I have news, Isabella, which…is good news in some ways, though it might signify hardships ahead for our Mother Country."

"What is it, Father?"

I cannot contain the excitement in my voice, for in my frame of mind, visions dance in my head of great, wigged men shaking hands in peaceful resolution. These resolutions shall bring my husband home soon and safely. Mary Alice need not marry John Andre nor any other British officer she could never tolerate much less love. Rosalie need not look over her shoulder when she must go into town to care for its womenfolk. Patriots who have left to assist Boston can return home…and Katrina McCarty can fall in love with one of them and forget she once believed my husband would be hers.

'Tis such sweet news all around, I verily vibrate.

"I have been promoted to Major. The ceremony shall take place this week in the town square and shall be officiated by Governor William Franklin himself."

Father grins proudly. His posture is tall and regal, and the brass buttons on his red coat catch the rays which seep through the oak's mighty branches, making the buttons fairly gleam as if God himself shines on them.

"Major?"

"Yes, Major."

"And…there shall be a ceremony?"

"Yes, Isabella, a ceremony."

"In the town square?"

He stares at me. "Yes, Isabella. A ceremony shall be held in town, to promote me to Major in our Majesty's Service. Are you well?"

He speaks the last words slowly as if he fears for my faculties. All the while, my grin withers as I blink away those previous visions in my head, most especially…most especially the vision of my husband returned to me.

"I am well, Father. You have my congratulations on your promotion. However…" I swallow before I continue, for I know full well I am about to deviate dangerously, "do you believe a ceremony in town to mark such an event be a wise thing, with the Troubles occurring there and beyond?"

His eyes widen, and he draws back quickly. "What do the Troubles caused by a handful of rebels have to do with a Governor's ceremony?"

"Father, I have not been in town for weeks because my husband does not believe it safe. 'Tis sufficient proof that tensions and divisions between neighbors have grown beyond mischief from a few rebels, for my husband only issues me directives for my safety. Do you truly believe a ceremony marking you as a Major in His Majesty's Service shall make things better, especially with those further troubles up North?"

"What know you of the troubles up North?"

"You and I discussed much of it before I married and afterward when you admitted to me that the punishment to Boston for the dumping of the tea was more severe than you initially allowed me to believe."

"Perhaps they were more severe than I would have wanted you as a gently-bred, young maiden to know, but it does not follow that the severity was not warranted. Isabella, there are matters occurring up North, which necessitate a stronger military presence in these colonies."

"A stronger presence? Is there not a great enough military presence in these colonies as it is, as proven by the troubles in Boston?"

The words tumble forth from my mouth before I can stop them.

Father looks at me in bewilderment. "What is this, Isabella? I am telling you I have been promoted to Major so as to give me greater autonomy in keeping the peace in Monmouth County, and we are somehow led into a discussion of the rebel siege in Boston?"

I realize I am leaned across the table closer to Father, my hands in fists over the elegant tablecloth. Swiftly, I drop my hands to my sides and pull away, pressing my back against the chair.

"Again, I congratulate you, Father. I am merely concerned that a ceremony shall appear as an insult to those in town whom already feel insulted by the regiment's presence."

"Your concerns do not coincide with your upbringing," Father says curtly. "You are the daughter of an English officer and a daughter of the Crown regardless of who you have married. _Where_ is your husband, Isabella?"

"I have told you."

"For nigh on two months? You newlywed, and he wanting you so much he practically stole you from under my nose, yet he leaves you nigh on two months for _farming business_?"

If I could strike myself, I would, for by this point, my breathing is noticeably labored, my nostrils flared, and my heart rate spiked. Stupidly, I have led this discussion in a disastrous direction, and I have no one but myself to blame for what now occurs. I recall those times when I was a child, and I would attempt to outsmart my father into either allowing me to do something he did not wish or excusing me from doing something _I_ did not wish. In most instances, I failed.

Yet...yet, this is no longer about me or about my comforts or wants. It is about my husband's _safety_ , and I am no longer a child.

I do not shut my eyes, no, for that would give away too much. What I do is straighten my spine and lift my chin. I force my features into the impassiveness of a young woman of my station, with little concerns beyond balls and parties and…and being mistress of a grand estate.

"I have already told you, more than once, Father, where my husband is. He is up North, seeing to the concerns of our land and harvest. If you require details beyond that, I do not have them for I am mistress to a household now, and as wife and mistress, there are a multitude of daily concerns with which I must contend. Fortunately for me, details of harvests, farm business, and animal husbandry are not part of those concerns. Yet, if you _still_ require details, I am sure my husband can happily provide them upon his return."

For what feels like an eternity, Father merely watches me, mouth slightly agape, for I have surely shocked him. A part of me wants to beg his forgiveness. Yet, the greater part of me must protect my husband.

I can no longer tell my Father mere half-truths.

"Thank you, for your congratulations, Isabella," he finally says.

I cannot tell from his tone if I have convinced him or if he now merely sees the futility of attempting to extract truth from me.

"As I am aware your husband does not want you in town, and as I must begrudgingly admit perhaps 'tis for the best, I know you shall not be in attendance for the ceremony. Nevertheless, daughter, your presence shall be sorely missed."

He speaks these last, few words much more softly, the final word almost a whisper, and my heart clenches when he reaches across the table to place his hand atop mine.

"I did not mean offense to you, daughter. I suppose…I suppose I am still learning I am no longer to whom your loyalties belong."

I swallow thickly and turn over my hand so that I may squeeze his in return.

"I _am_ proud of you, Father, and I apologize if I have been disrespectful. However, I must admit…" I clear my throat, for regardless of how horrendously I have performed this afternoon, apparently, I know not when to quit, "I must admit there is a topic I would like to broach with you before our visit ends."

"Go ahead, Isabella. What would you like to discuss?" His tone is much more conciliatory as if he feels the rift between us as grievously as do I.

"I received a letter from Mary Alice a few days ago."

Here, Father sighs long and deep, and the mollifying softness which had appeared in his gaze dissipates.

"Oh? What does Mary Alice have to say?" By the hardened edge in his voice, I have the sensation he already knows much.

"She is to be married, Father, to John Andre."

He stares at me.

"John Andre," I repeat. "You recall him, do you not?"

"I recall John Andre," he confirms without inflection.

"Father, you have known Mary Alice since she was a young girl. You know she would not be happy with a man such as John."

"I know no such thing, and I do not see how you would know it when you are not she."

"But she is one of my dearest friends."

For a long while, Father holds my gaze. His tall, black fur hat rests on its own chair beside us. The air whipped up by the afternoon breeze flutters the fur along with the red feather to the side of the hat.

"What else has she told you, Isabella?"

I know not why. Perhaps 'tis because I belatedly realize 'tis already the hat of a Major, and the coming ceremony is not necessary. Perhaps 'tis my husband's prolonged absence. Perhaps it be my concern for Rosalie in town. Perhaps it be my concern for Alice in New York. Perhaps 'tis a symptom of that which Rosalie believes grows inside my body. Perhaps it is an amalgamation of all the above.

"She has told me there are two large warships docked in New York Harbor. She has told me she wakes to the sight of their cannons pointed at our friends' homes and businesses. _Our_ homes and businesses, Father," I seethe. "You were not promoted merely to keep the _peace_ here in Monmouth County; were you, Father? This conflict grows."

"This conflict grows because the patriot rebels force it to grow. But let us return to Mary Alice," he says with maddening calm. "She is being married because of her seditious thoughts and actions, which could have ruined her entire family had her father not been able to have her signature stricken from that document I am sure she also told you of. Nevertheless, her rebelliousness has gone too far. She is your friend, Isabella, but even you must see it."

I shift my gaze to the oak's mighty trunk, attempting to remain in control of myself, at the very least.

"What I see is a young woman being forced to the altar as if she were a possession, in a manner as if…"

My husband's words from a day long ago, in a dark cellar, suddenly return to me.

… _the manner in which everything is imposed on us by Parliament as if we are cattle to be led and branded without choice._

"…as if she were cattle to be led and branded without choice," I finish.

"Ridiculous," Father snorts. "Isabella, I know you are concerned for her, as is her father, and as am I, for as you rightfully say, I have known Mary Alice since you were both young girls. This marriage is the best thing for her at the moment, and 'tis the best her father could manage under the circumstances, for no other officer would have her."

My eyes flash furiously back to my father. "Did you have something to do with this?"

"I counseled her father; yes, I did," he confirms without apology. "For I have learned and paid the price myself for allowing a daughter too much freedom. Had I known where your eye wandered I would have married you off to James Pitman the moment we set foot in Freehold Township."

"That is a grievous insult not only to me but to my husband, for whom I feel it all the more," I say. By this point, my voice shakes with barely controlled umbrage. "And since he is not here to defend himself, _I_ shall defend him and demand an apology."

"I apologize, Isabella," Father says quickly. "'Twas badly done, I admit."

"And to think you do so on _his_ land, after partaking from the fruits of _his_ labor, for he labors along with his men, and drinking your tea – regardless of how disgusting you find it – from _his_ dead mother's tea set!"

"I have apologized, Isabella," he hisses. "What more can I do?"

"Speak to Mary Alice's father!"

"I shall not, Isabella," he says, his voice sedate once more. "I apologize for the insult to you and your husband, but I stand by what I said. Had I known…" – he swallows – "had I known you were falling for a patriot – for I am not stupid, and I know your husband be a patriot, at the very least – I would have married you off immediately. I apologize, but there it is. Now, let us change the subject."

"Your plentiful apologies notwithstanding, because I am a woman, you were prepared to pick my husband for me regardless of what I would have wanted."

"'Twas my right as your father."

"And I suppose you believe Mary Alice's father has the right to doom her to perpetual unhappiness, simply because she is a woman and because she has beliefs of her own."

"I am done with this subject, Isabella."

The sudden impotence which takes hold of me is almost more than I can bear.

"So am I, Father," I say with more conviction than I feel. "And I believe we are also done with our visit."

His head falls back as if I have struck him. But then, he quickly recovers and stands, lifting his fur hat atop his head.

"Very well, Isabella," he says softly, while I remain seated and staring at the trunk once more, refusing to be swayed by the hurt in his tone. "I suppose I should go."

I nod once, and he stands there for some moments, waiting still. In my periphery, I warily watch his eventual approach. Despite my fury, when he leans down and brushes his lips to my forehead, an audible whimper escapes me. Yet, I refuse to look at him.

"Our visit has ended badly, daughter, but know you are my heart, and I grieve because I would have wanted differently for you and because I fear…"

He trails off, and I do not reply. In fact, I only pull my eyes away from the oak's trunk and to my father as he rides away atop his stallion.

OOOOOOOOOO

I wake a few nights later alone, as usual, in my bed. At first, as I stare up at the black ceiling, I know not what has woken me. The late June heat is stifling, even more so than in New York Colony, though we are only fifty or so miles further south. Vague images of my husband smiling at me in our apple orchard flit through my mind. But the images are vague indeed, and I begin to worry, for I do not know if they are filmy because they were merely dreams…or because I begin to forget what he looks like.

When I turn my head toward the windows, he stands there, in breeches but shirtless. The moonlight which streams in through the corners shines on his hair and on his profile as he peeks through the shutters. I study his profile closely, ensuring I rememorize every part of him. The hair on his face is thick as if I had not shaved him before he left. I imagine he has not had a shave since. When he turns to look at me, he grins, and the heavy mustache above his lip twitches.

"You are not truly here, are you?" I whisper.

When he does not reply, I have my answer, even before he begins to fade.

The tightness in my throat along with the heat is oppressive. Despite Mrs. Clearwater's beliefs of the nighttime air's dangerous properties for someone in my "possible condition," I stand to open the windows, else I may expire in a puddle of my own perspiration.

Pushing back the curtains, I release the lock and open the shutters, pushing open the windows and swallowing gratefully the fresh air which rushes in. As I close my eyes, the breeze crawls under my hair and caresses my nape, then further down my spine and billows my gown.

When I reopen my eyes, I see the brilliant moon reflecting over all of Cullen Hill, rich and expansive land which provides for so many in such a multitude of ways. Of a sudden, I am filled with a sense of pride so strong it makes me gasp, for I might soon…I might soon provide the majestic land with an heir. Strangely enough, though a frightening prospect in daylight, 'tis a calming thought in darkness. My palm instinctively rounds over my flattened stomach, and a small smile lifts the corners of my mouth as I gaze out at the quiet fields.

And just as peace begins to truly take hold within me, it and the relative darkness are broken by movement in the distance.

At first, 'tis something shapeless, marked merely by the way it displaces the obscurity 'round it. 'Tis only a curious sight at first as I try to determine what the object may be. 'Tis only as it nears, closer and closer, finally close enough so that I may determine 'tis a swiftly galloping horse, that my heart comes to a standstill.

For two seconds, I am allowed to believe it might be my husband returned to me. Yet, in the next second, the moonlight glows off the long, flaxen hair of its rider, and I am no longer anxiously excited, but horribly petrified.

As I fly down the stairs, I do not recall having donned my robe nor having called for Mrs. Clearwater. Yet, the lady appears almost the moment I reach the landing, pale and frightened herself as she watches me pull open the door and run out.

"Mrs. Cullen, no! Remain indoors! The nighttime air is not good for you!"

I am already halfway down the hill. My long braid comes loose, sending tendrils of hair flying against my cheeks and momentarily blocking my view. 'Tis only when I am almost at the stables, and I see Rosalie has already dismounted and speaks furiously with my husband's grooms and hands, that I also see she is not alone; Katrina McCarty stands beside her.

"- as both of the masters of this household have instructed! Form a perimeter around the entire property, for we know not what may come!"

"Yes, Mistress McCarty!" Seth says and then quickly runs off with more than a handful of men.

A few others remain.

"How did it begin, Mistress?"

"'Twas that stupid ceremony with our traitorous governor in attendance and held right in the middle of the square. I suppose 'twas too much of an insult for some, especially emboldened as they are since learning the Congress in Philadelphia has created a continental army and elected a true general to lead it. But it was more than that."

She pauses, and though she has not yet seen me, I see her clearly, and I know her well enough to know she is attempting to rein in her emotions. As it is, when she next speaks, her voice quivers, and 'tis all I can do not to scream from my fright. For if she sees me, I fear she may stop speaking so as not to harm me in my "possible condition."

"Right before the ceremony's commencement, word arrived from Massachusetts Colony. A massive battle was fought a few days ago, where the Regulars attempted to take the hills surrounding Boston to gain a foothold into the city. In the course of the battle…our brother in liberty, Doctor Joseph Warren, was killed."

Rosalie's voice breaks, and I clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle my own shock. Of course, I know now very well who is…who was Doctor Joseph Warren.

He was President of the Massachusetts Provincial Congress, and along with Sam Adams and John Hancock, one of the founders of the _Sons of Liberty_ , one of the first men to speak out against what they believed British oppression. Most importantly to _me_ , he was, in a roundabout way, the man responsible for my marriage.

'Twas that fateful night when I snuck into the tavern that I inadvertently learned what Joseph Warren learned from his lover, Margaret Gage, the wife of the Massachusetts military governor. I learned that the Regulars marched on Lexington and Concorde. I learned they aimed to capture weaponry as well as to capture Samuel Adams and John Hancock. And when I was discovered in the tavern, I was faced with the choice of either being abandoned in New Jersey Colony's wolf and bear infested pine barrens…or marriage to Edward.

Silence enfolds us, broken only by the nighttime creatures and insects who do not realize the import of the moment. Nevertheless, she must sense me, for Rosalie's eyes abruptly shift directly in my direction. She steps toward me almost without surprise, issuing a final directive behind her as she approaches.

"Both Mr. Cullens have left you all instructions in case of such occurrences."

The men disburse.

"What are you doing out here, Isabella? Get back in the house. This air is not good for you."

"What has occurred in town?"

"Isabella, go back inside."

Katrina, almost as tall and beautiful as Rosalie, rushes toward me. Attempting to use her height as intimidation, she towers over me.

"Your father has waged war on our town!"

"Katrina!" Rosalie hisses.

Ignoring Katrina, I question Rosalie once again.

"Rosalie, pray tell me what has occurred."

"What has occurred is that your father's insulting ceremony resulted in a revolt! Blood has been shed! People hide inside their homes while men lie injured in the streets, and your father's red and green-coated regiments patrol our town as if 'tis theirs!" By this point, Katrina is shouting down at me. "They patrol our people, while more of your redcoats murder our patriot leaders!"

Slowly, I turn away from Rosalie and angle upward to face Katrina.

"Katrina McCarty, I shall tell you this once and once only. You are on _my_ land, on _my_ property, and you shall not disrespect me in my own home, or regardless of what occurs in town, you shall find yourself off my property."

"She is correct, Katrina," Rosalie says.

Katrina gasps wildly, shocked, her gaze murderous. Mrs. Clearwater abruptly appears, hovering about yet too respectful to speak until spoken to, for she sees something occurs. With my eyes still on Katrina, I address the lady.

"Mrs. Clearwater, please do us the favor of taking Miss McCarty into the house and seeing to her needs. I must speak with Mrs. McCarty and with our men, and then make decisions on what is to be done this eve."

I am aware Mrs. Clearwater desperately wants me indoors, but she will not contradict me.

"Yes, _Mrs. Cullen_ ," she says calmly, stressing my marital surname. "Miss McCarty, come along."

It takes Katrina a handful of seconds to pull her hate-filled gaze off of me, yet she manages to do so without further verbal assault. Once she and Mrs. Clearwater have disappeared, I release the breath I have been holding, laying a hand on my now racing heart.

"Damnation," I breathe.

"You did well in asserting yourself and your position. I would not have brought her here at all, but I could not in good conscience leave her alone after what has occurred."

"You need not explain your reasoning to me." I lift my eyes to Rosalie. "Does she speak the truth?"

Rosalie nods slowly.

"Is my father well?" I whisper.

Once more, Rosalie nods. "When I left town, he was well; though, the situation was not. 'Tis bad business in town, Isabella; I shall not lie to you. Mrs. Spencer's boy chose the middle of the revolt in which to arrive. Naturally, I could not leave until he was all out, and Mr. Spencer did me the favor of lending me a blade lest I meet with trouble."

I double over and clamp a hand over my mouth. "Lord Above, should something have happened to you…"

I feel Rosalie's hand stroke my back in that tender way of hers despite her strength.

"Perhaps I should not have mentioned the blade."

"Why not?" I snort. "Did you not say earlier that my time would likely be ripe with concerns?"

She does not reply. When the nausea recedes, I draw in a deep breath and straighten.

"Doctor Warren is dead?"

She nods, biting her lip to keep it from quivering.

My eyes shift away from her and toward the darkness.

"Poor Mrs. Gage must be devastated."

"Come, dearest," she eventually says, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. "Let us go inside. This nighttime air-"

"Yes, yes; I know." I meet her eyes as we walk. "Rosalie, you shall stay here, and so shall Katrina, until our husbands and her father return."

"I thank you for your hospitality, dearest, and I am sure Katrina does as well."

We both chuckle without true humor as we shake our heads. My eyes stray to the stable, where my sweet Hope rests for the night.

"I shall speak to the men in the morn and ensure we have sufficient guarding the land, for if trouble be afoot in town-"

"It may overflow here, yes," she sighs. "Your husband and father-in-law have left instructions."

"And why do you know this but not I?"

Her footfalls falter for just a moment before we continue on to the house.

OOOOOOOOOO

When the cock crows for the third and final time, I open my eyes to a new morn. With the events of the previous night, I did not re-shutter the windows so that I might both have much-needed air and so that I might hear whatever comes this way. Bright sunlight now streams in through the curtains, alighting the usually dark room.

My husband sits at the edge of the bed, watching me. He is in breeches but with no shirt, and the sun's rays gleam off the golden hairs on his chest. His emerald gaze does not waver, and for a long moment, we simply remain locked in one another's eyes. I do not speak, for I know how this goes: when I speak, when I ask my usual question, he disappears.

So, I study him as silently as he always studies me, wondering what he would say, and full of so much I want to say. Yet, I keep it to myself lest he becomes air too quickly. I watch his heaving chest, noting now how in this imagined vision, he appears somewhat thinner than when he left, his ribs more pronounced. The beard 'cross his face appears even lengthier. His hair, likewise, is in need of a trim, dirty and disheveled as it be. Still, he is as beautiful to me as the day I first espied him at the Freehold assembly, wearing his impeccable blue coat, his tightly-knotted neckcloth, his hastily tied-back hair, and his lips twisted in a deep scowl.

Exhaling heavily, I realize I must begin my day. Much occurs this morn. We have two guests afoot: one friend and one…not quite. I know not what occurs with my father, and Freehold Township is in revolt. Cullen Hill's land and people must be kept safe.

"How is it possible for me to long for you as I do when we spent such a short time together?" I whisper shakily. "How is this need to share with you so potent, when we were meant to be enemies, yet I feel as if we spent a lifetime sharing our thoughts? And yet, throughout all which occurs, you are not truly here, are you?"

Still, he watches me silently.

When his warm, calloused hand reaches out and cradles my face, I gasp wildly and push back against the bed.

"I know what you mean, for I have felt the same these long months."

"What is this cruel dream which even speaks?" I sob.

"Shh. Shh, 'tis not a dream, for I am here, my beloved wife."

He follows me across the mattress, his weight making the goose feathers within sink and rise with his movements. I shut my eyes, still positive I must be dreaming…until I feel his weight over me and his hands in my loose hair, gripping tightly yet tenderly. Soft lips brush back and forth against my lips and gently suck on the top one, then the bottom one…as my husband tends to do.

"Isabella, I am here," he murmurs against my mouth. "Open your eyes and look at me, my love, for I am here."

"Edward," I breathe, opening my eyes. And despite the horrors festering around us, I smile.

"Edward, you are truly here."

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 ***A history lesson will be included in the next update.***

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**

 **Have a good week. :)**


	18. WARNING: Purely a History Lesson

**A/N: WARNING: The following is purely a history lesson!**

 **This isn't a new chapter. We'll have one of those early next week. But since a few of you have asked, I've prepared a quick history lesson to give the last few and the next few chapters some context. And since these chapter have been pretty long, I figured instead of including it with the next chapter, I'd send it out on its own. SO…**

* * *

 **Quickie American Revolution History (1775) Lesson for Those Interested!**

The American Revolution happened a little bit ago, _just_ long ago enough where it might not be fresh in some memories. AND/OR, some simply didn't attend school here in the U.S. and didn't need to learn all this. (I AM aware there's a world out there beyond the U.S.). ;)

So…if you want a quick refresher just to throw some of these names, places, and dates in the last few and the next few chapters into some perspective, keep on reading here.

If you're not interested in history, skip this. Hit the X. Seriously. Or else you'll be totally bored because I warn you: This is pure HISTORY. It's completely fine to hate it. I hate Math. You can't pay me enough to sit and read a budget report. (Actually, reading budget reports is part of my job, so I guess you can). :(

Anyway, my point is, I see how we're all different, and again, that's FINE.

Plus, you don't need any of this to get the gist of the story or to follow the romantic adventures of Patriotward and his Loyalistella.

All caveats out of the way (seriously, if you're still reading, you have no one but yourself to blame), let's start with:

 **The Raid on Fort Ticonderoga, all the way in the beginning of the American Revolutionary War, in early May of 1775.**

The strategic importance of the fort was due to a few things, but most importantly:

1) The shores of Lake Champlain, in 1775 were more or less the dividing point between the thirteen colonies and what was at the time the British-controlled northern provinces (Today, it's O Canada!). The French-colonized northern provinces were begrudgingly ceded to the British after the French lost the French and Indian War back in the early 1760s. (Keep this French loss in mind, guys, because the French sure as hell did, and it becomes quite important later on in the revolution).

British Forces on the continent were then split between the thirteen colonies and the northern provinces. Rebel colonists hoped to get these provinces to revolt along with the colonies and fight Britain alongside them. They wrote the Quebec citizens letters, sent people in to talk to them, the whole 18th century propaganda thing. Then, the rebels did something really stupid, which we'll get to soon in the story.

2) Fort Ticonderoga was further north of Boston. Now, at the very beginning of the war, Boston was in a desperate battle to rid itself of those pesky British forces controlling its port (The Siege of Boston). If the British managed to gather forces at Fort Ticonderoga, it would leave Boston open to attack from the rear. (And nobody wants to get _attacked_ from the rear).

3) Fort Ticonderoga contained a huge supply of war artillery and weaponry, mostly abandoned since the end of the F&I War. The patriot rebels needed these supplies or the game would be over before they could even say, "One, two, three, four; I declare a thumb war" – much less call it a revolution. Moreover, they needed the supplies transported to Boston to free that city asap.

Both sides realized the importance of the fort and the surrounding forts at about the same time. Fortunately – or unfortunately, depending on what side of the conflict you were on – the patriot rebels were able to mobilize their butts there first. (But couldn't we at least have kept the _accent_?).

 **Benedict Arnold**

Benedict Arnold was a ship captain and a smuggler at the start of the Revolution. He quickly realized the importance of the fort and went to Massachusetts Committee of Safety, who handed him a Colonel's commission and their blessing to capture the fort. Unbeknownst to him and the rest of the committee, **Ethan Allen** , a bit of an outlaw from Connecticut (and today, name-bearer of a chain of furniture shops), and his mounted gang, **The Green Mountain Boys** (1775's version of Thugs) took it upon themselves to do the same. When they all met up on their way to the same objective, a pissing contest ensued between Allen and Arnold. This incident was the first of many slaps in the face Arnold would receive throughout the war, slaps in the face which may have contributed to-

Wait! We're getting ahead of ourselves. Those of you who more or less know what Arnold did might be going, " _Ahhh_ , I see."

Those of you who don't know: Don't worry. You _will_ see. ;)

This little pissing contest came to a bit of an end (though Arnold and Allen would go on to talk shit about one another for the rest of their lives) when Allen and his men moved on to Fort St. John, further down Lake Champlain, despite warnings from Arnold that the British had sent a huge regiment to defend that Fort. They returned soon to Fort Ticonderoga with their tails nicely tucked between their legs after having escaped the British Regulars by the skin of their teeth. Allen and his men then stuck around Ticonderoga for a couple of weeks, continuing to be thorns in Arnold and his men's sides while waiting to see if Massachusetts Congress would officially name Allen leader of this here expedition. When that didn't happen (and when the liquor ran out), they moved on to other projects.

Okay, so now, Arnold and his men were literally "holding the fort," when in mid-June of 1775, Connecticut's Provincial Congress decided to send another colonel, a Benjamin Hinman, plus one thousand men under him, to undermine Arnold's authority because, you know, they hadn't dissed him enough yet.

Cue another pissing contest, where Arnold was like, "Oh, hell no. I did not capture this here fort with Massachusetts' backing only to have you come in with a commission from Connecticut and take over. You and your one thousand men better roll on out of here."

Yeah, no.

When Massachusetts sent confirmation that Hinman was indeed now the head of this expedition, Arnold took a couple of days to consider this new slap in face, then basically told Massachusetts to stick the fort where the sun don't shine. He resigned his commission and rolled his own men on out of there. The fact that he'd just received notice that his (first) wife had died while he'd been away did nothing to improve his mood. Unfortunately, like I said before, the slaps to his face were only just beginning.

And before I get accused of being a "Benedict Arnold Lover," I am not excusing him in any way, shape, or form.

 **Meanwhile, in Freehold Township, Monmouth County, New Jersey Colony:**

 **Mid-June, 1775** : Shit was getting real. Tensions were high. Neighbor was pit against neighbor, as the County had a large portion of loyalists due to its proximity to New York, which itself was largely loyalist at the time. With the conflict escalating after the first shots of the war were fired in Massachusetts, tensions grew worse in Freehold. These tensions pitting neighbor against neighbor in Monmouth County would continue throughout the rest of the 7-year period of the war.

With New York City controlled by the Brits, and it being so close to Freehold, relatively speaking, the temptation for loyalists to continually help that city was just too great to pass up – not to mention the profits to be made (If you didn't get caught and quartered first). The first year of the war, especially, was confusing in Freehold because even though the New Jersey Provincial Congress met and discussed replacing all crown-appointed leaders in the state, these changes happened gradually. It wasn't until late 1775/early 1776, that most of New Jersey was like, "Alright, you darn loyalists, the tribe has spoken, and you have been voted off the island." (No, New Jersey is not an island).

At that point, all crown-appointed leaders in Monmouth County were replaced with patriots.

 **Interesting Tidbit #1:** New Jersey's last Royal Governor, William Franklin (who would be jailed in January, 1776) was none other than the son of Benjamin Franklin – Founding Father (and experimenter with electricity). I mentioned this in one of the earlier chapters, but in case you forgot. ;)

 **Second Continental Congress: June, 1775**

The Second Continental Congress, which convened in the spring of 1775 in Philadelphia (right after the Battle of Lexington and Concorde, the battle which started the war) went on to establish a **Continental Army** as opposed to just these small militias which were running rampant all over the 13 colonies. They then elected **George Washington** as commander-in-chief of this continental army. (Yes, THAT George Washington).

So, this G. Washington, upon accepting command of this new army, marched from Philadelphia, through New Jersey (specifically for our purposes, through Trenton, NJ, which isn't very far from Freehold, NJ), to New York City, (then to whatever other states/colonies are in between there and Massachusetts. I'm sorry, but I don't have a map in front of me, and geography isn't my strong suit), collecting men/troops along the way. Eventually, this new army reached Boston, melded with the thousands of militia men there defending the city, and became the first Continental Army of 1775. Initially, the Continental Army only had a one-year enlistment, which turned out to be a BAD idea, as we'll see later on.

 **New York City, New York Colony: 1775:**

Ahh, New York City, little loyalist enclave, where much of the high and mighty of the Brit aristocracy lived. It's no wonder it was derisively referred to as "Torytown." Yes, yes, there were patriots there as well, who did the Brit-boycott thing, erected liberty poles, protested around the statue of King George, etc.

 **And here's Interesting Tidbit #2:** That whole Yankees/Red-Sox Rivalry/Antagonism predates the actual baseball teams. I mean, yes, after the Brits closed Boston's port due to the tea party, New York colony stood with her sister colony in refusing to provide supplies and men for General Gage's garrison in Boston and they sent as much food and supplies to Bostonians as they could smuggle in, but they drew the line at raising arms. To many "moderate" New York patriots, New England's patriots were downright militant!

That's not to say those New York "radical" patriots didn't start getting rowdy themselves. They were all gung ho "Let's revolt!" in April, 1775 after the first shots were fired in Concord and Lexington, Massachusetts. But then, one morning in late May, 1775, they woke up to two huge British warships in their harbor, with lots of shiny cannons pointed right at their houses and places of business. Kinda took the wind out of the sails of many, so to speak.

Nevertheless, New York's Provincial Congress began getting ready for the war by raising equipment and troops for the defense of New York – but it turned a blind eye to the provisioning of the British warships in the harbor. And when in late June, George Washington marched through both New York and New Jersey to take command of the rebel forces defending Boston, he received about as much applause as did the city's royal governor later that day, when he returned from a trip to London.

This attitude of "I support the uprising – as long as it doesn't affect me _too_ much" continued until about August, 1775, when the Continental Congress stepped in and was like, "Come on, people! We're trying to win a war here! Get these Royal governing dudes out of here already!"

Unfortunately, since New York City's ports have always been indisputably vital (and I'm not saying this because I'm a born and bred New Yorker; it's just fact, guys ;) ), the Brits were not ready to relinquish control all that easily. New York went through some serious business before it was captured by the British in August 1776. It then spent most of the war as the British stronghold, which with New Jersey being right next door, had a huge affect on that colony as well. But we'll get to that later.

Oh yeah! Before I forget: **British Major John Andre** (aka Mary Alice Brandon's fiancé).

Most of what I've mentioned in the story so far about John Andre is completely true. He was young (25 at the start of the war), handsome, talented (he drew, sang, and wrote poetry), spoke four languages, but he was also from the merchant class, which to the 18th century Brit aristocracy meant he might as well have been born in a garbage can. Therefore, while popular with the ladies of New York and Philadelphia society, none of the high-class ladies' daddies would've exactly considered him son-in-law material. In the case of Mary Alice Brandon, her daddy would've seen him as a last resort, marrying Alice off to him because none of the uppity Brit officers would marry her with the rumors of her seditious rebelliousness running wild in NYC.

In return, John would've agreed to marry Alice because she was of a higher social standing, plus there were those lovely dowries daddies used to pay potential sons-in-law just to take their little girls' away from them.

John entered the army as a Lieutenant, and as he was undeniably intelligent and could talk the good talk, he eventually rose to Major. In between, he had some other stuff happen to him, which we'll discuss in the story. But keep in mind that he was HUGELY important, for reasons which we'll see. So don't disregard John too much just because he was such a pretty face. ;)

* * *

 **A/N: Alright, I think this will keep us up to date with the history for a bit. Again, it wasn't necessary to read (then again, _none_ of this is necessary to read, lol), so I hope you didn't get to the end of this and were like,**

 **"What? That's it? WHERE ARE EDWARD AND ISABELLA?"**

 **I warned you they weren't here! ;)**

 **And I hope you took it all tongue-in-cheek, as it was meant. (Though, it is true stuff).**

 **But we'll see our Rebel Patriot and his (Loyalist?) wife again early next week. Take care, and have a good weekend!**

 **(And as I finished giving this a quick run-through, I'm thinking it sounds a bit like one of those Drunk History episodes, lol. But I swear I'm not drunk! Oh well.)**

 **Oh yeah, and at the end of this anti-British-rule history lesson, can I just say, "God save the Queen!" Harry and Meghan are getting married tomorrow! Oh Yeah!**


	19. Ch 17: The Incident in the Tub Room

**A/N: Thank you so much for your wonderful thoughts.**

 **I see some of you really enjoyed last week's history lesson, lol. Well, there's another, though somewhat shorter one at the end of this chapter.**

 **Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to either history or to me.**

 **Chapter 17 – The Incident in the Tub Room**

* * *

 **Cullen House – June 30, 1775**

When Isabella tips the water jug over my head, my eyes instinctively fall shut, and my head rolls back so that my nape rests against the wooden tub's rim. The stream of warmth prickles my hair and runs in rivulets down my face, then further to my neck. A long groan of pure, uninhibited pleasure escapes me.

I splay my arms 'cross the tub's edges, bending my legs at the knees to keep from fully submerging, for such is the state of my pliancy. Regardless of the hardships from which I have arrived and those through which we must still traverse, I am in my own corner of heaven. Eyes still shut, I hear my wife set down the empty jug. A handful of seconds later, her strong yet tender hands slip into my scalp, and the corners of my eyes sting, for I could verily worship her.

"Isabella."

Her name erupts in a strangled whisper, for I still do not fully believe I am in her presence. As I recall those things I learned from rider to rider as I made my way home, as I made my way to _her_ , fear tightens my chest and constricts my lungs.

 _Have you men heard? The conflict intensifies! Another battle was fought on the hills surrounding Boston, and now, a son of liberty, Joseph Warren, is dead, and Loyalist traitors are being chased out of the city._

 _There is word that warships have docked in New York Harbor._

 _Trouble is afoot throughout New Jersey Colony. A revolt threatens the citizens of Freehold Township where Monmouth County's royal regiment is garrisoned._

Swiftly, I reopen my eyes, for again I begin to doubt the veracity of what they have seen. When I find my wife stood above me still, I exhale in relief.

"Isabella, you are real."

In her ivory night shift, with her lovely face hovering above, her dark, beguiling eyes on mine, and her long, sable hair about her shoulders, she is a dark angel in this small piece of paradise. Her hands rake my hair, gently gripping and fisting.

"Aye, and you are real as well, Edward, as evidenced by the overgrown hair on your head and face. You appear like one of those lions I have read of in books."

With a snort, I reach up and pull one of her divine hands from my hair and guide it to my mouth, where I brush my lips back and forth against the soft skin of her palm.

"Ah, that brazen mouth," I murmur against her hand, "'tis how _I_ know you are real."

She does not reply.

I look up again and wait for her to meet my eyes.

"Isabella, I rode for home and for you as soon as I was able. What is more, once we heard of the troubles in Freehold, Emmett and I rode all the harder."

"You were separated from the rest?"

"Aye," I say simply, unable to tell her the reason; at least, not yet. "We have not slept in days nor-"

Isabella cradles my rough, bearded cheek in her free hand and shakes her head. "Foolish men. Believe you my silence be recrimination for the length of your absence? I see from your appearance you have not cared for yourself in some time. You should not have broken from the rest of the group nor endangered yourselves so."

I cannot tell her. Not yet. So, I tell her what I may.

"My love, if something should have happened to you-"

"What would happen to _me_ here on our land where you ordered I should remain during your absence? And as you see, I have obeyed." She offers me a teasing grin which swiftly fades. "If something should have happened to _you_ in your haste-"

"I shall neither apologize for my haste nor pledge not to act in the same manner if the situation ever again arises."

She purses her lips and once more shakes her head. "I do not suppose I shall extract such apologies or promises from you; therefore, I shall not even attempt it. Now, allow me to tend to you, for you truly appear almost wild." When she attempts to pull her hand from mine, I do not release it.

"I confess I feel almost wild, yet there is much of which we must speak."

"Aye, there is much to say between us," she agrees with a rather wistful look, "and we may speak of all afterward."

Begrudgingly, I release her hand. "Very well, wife. I shall acquiesce in this."

For the next hour, my precious wife tends to me in ways I imagine only the best of wives tend to their husbands. She washes the dirt out of my hair and then trims it neatly. She shaves my face and neck into a smoothness I have not known for many weeks. Mrs. Clearwater and Leah discreetly enter the empty room in which we have settled the tub. They bring with them yet more jugs of hot water. However, I am so lulled by her ministrations, I barely acknowledge or thank them.

I hear my wife's words of gratitude said for me, and when they leave, my wife pours the jugs into the tub, once more kindling its waters. She hands me my teeth-cleaning implements, then she proceeds to brush the washrag with the lye soap.

"Shut your eyes tightly," she warns.

As I scrub my mouth, she scrubs me face to neck, neck to shoulders. Silently, I watch her guide the rag in circular patterns down my arms. When I lift them, she washes my torso, ribs to stomach. Next, she kneels beside the tub, and as she drops her head and moves the rag beyond my stomach, her hair falls like a curtain between us.

Aye, my manhood grows and hardens at her attention. I hiss through my teeth, yet she does not allow the protrusion now breaking the water's surface to distract her. Instead, Isabella continues her cathartic cleansing, proceeding to my thighs and my legs. When I attempt to claim the washcloth so that I may scrub my feet, Isabella shakes her head and performs the duty herself.

When she is done, she sets the rag on the tub's rim and lifts her head. Her hair falls 'round her eyes, and I gently push the tendrils behind her ears. For an interminable moment, we hold one another's gaze.

"Do you feel better?" she asks in a whisper.

"Aye, I feel like a man once more. You were correct to insist, and I thank you for it."

'Tis a strange sensation roiling within me – more peace than I have felt in months, yet 'tis combined with a lust for my wife so all-consuming, I might soon either roar like the lion she accuses me of resembling or pull her into the tight, wooden tub with me, nightgown and all.

As if she suspects what might soon occur, Isabella stands and walks to the chair where she has laid out my robe. I as well stand from the tub and allow the excess droplets to drip from my body. As she hands me my garment, I am both amazed and awed by the changes in my young wife in the months we have been apart. As her eyes trail over me, they pause where I ache for her, yet there is no embarrassment as there was the first time she saw me unclothed, only…open interest.

Again, she meets my gaze. "Don your robe, husband. I shall await you in our chambers."

I do not want to assume; therefore, when I enter our chambers a few minutes later, I know not what to expect. Much occurs around us; I am aware. Just as I am aware much is to be done, both in terms of the land and the town. There is the smuggled inventory I have brought with me to contend with. I am also aware there is a situation with my wife's father; though, the particulars I do not yet possess. There is much of which to be concerned.

In spite of the reposing ritual my wife has just performed on me, I am once again unsettled, especially as I espy Isabella by the open windows with her back to me. The curtains billow in the morning breeze, revealing the golden cornfields beyond and the sun in its early day position, high in the azure skies. 'Tis a lovely sight, indeed: my wife framed by our land in harvest season.

Sunlight suddenly streams in from between the curtain's ebb and flow; its rays illuminate Isabella's form underneath her shift so that I can easily discern every soft curve and gentle angle, her narrow waist widening as it leads to her curved backside. The ache begun between my legs as she washed me now intensifies into a throb. Nevertheless, as my legs carry me toward her, I make a valiant attempt to disregard it, for aye, there is much to be discussed and to be done. However begrudgingly, I accept it must take precedence.

When I am halfway to her, Isabella turns and catches my eye over her shoulder. Sunlight sparkles in her gaze right before she faces forward once more. Then, I watch her shoulders rise and fall before she reaches down and fists the material of her shift, lifting it upward. It slips over her head, and my wife shakes out her long, dark hair, allowing the gown to fall at her side. Her now bare shoulders rise and fall once more and then go still.

There are sights which are never erased from your mind. In my two-and-twenty years, I have had my fair share of both good and bad such ones. In only the past few weeks, I have had more.

Regardless, the sight of the sun's rays directly above my wife's naked form, heralding her as if the Lord himself is granting me the privilege…nay, the _honor_ of being her husband, shall forever be imprinted at the forefront.

I discard my robe where I stand. When I reach her, my hands move forward and cup her breasts as I pull her back against my chest. Her soft body melts into me easily. She wraps her hands around mine and threads her fingers through my fingers. We fit together as perfectly as we have always, even when we were both still unsure of how we would make work a union between a loyalist, Tory wife and a patriotic, Whig husband.

Burying my face against her smooth neck, I inhale her sweet, unique scent and skim my lips along the curve of her throat. Her head falls back onto my shoulder, and my hardened manhood presses against her rounded backside. At that moment, with every part of her against me, we are _almost_ …almost as one body.

As I lavish her with tender kisses, I whisper in her ear. "I dreamt of you nightly, daily in truth. I dreamt of your laughter, of your voice in joy and in anger and everywhere in between. I dreamt of the way your dark eyes hold mine in amusement, of the way your brow lifts when I have upset you or when you are sure you know more than I. And…and I dreamt of being inside you."

She gasps at my confession and drops her head forward. I have embarrassed my young wife with such thoughts, but I can no longer withhold them. My hands as well can no longer be restrained, for one begins to trail downward.

"I dreamt of having your legs wrapped around me, of the warmth of being buried within your tight core." As I say this, my wandering hand locates the core of which I speak, and I cup that most tender of parts, hearing her breath hitch. "I dreamt of putting my mouth on you and having your mouth on me in places unknown and forbidden to everyone other than a husband and his wife. And forgive me for confessing such things, Isabella," I add quickly, my voice quivering, "for I know I should not speak such vulgarity to you – you, who are a well-bred young lady. I suppose the wildness is still within me, for I cannot help myself."

Here, my wife turns in my arms and looks up at me with a gaze as bold and fiery as the sun which burns in the sky behind her.

"Do I appear offended, Edward? I am more than a well-bred young lady, are not I? I am your _wife_ , and I have desired you nightly as you have desired me. Do you think because I am a woman I have not also dreamt of many of those pleasurable acts you have mentioned?"

My mouth opens…and shuts.

"Does feeling want the way a man feels it make me vulgar? Would you prefer I stand here or lay on our bed and simply allow you to take your pleasure from my body with no complaint…but neither with a response?"

I confess I blink my eyes stupidly a handful of times before I recover the power of speech.

"I would never desire such a thing, and neither do I believe you wanting me as I want you make you vulgar." I cradle her beautiful face between my hands. "It makes you perfect."

She lifts a brow and watches me with lingering doubt.

"Isabella, you are wondrous, my love. Your continuous ability to speak your mind leaves me never quite knowing what that mind shall think and what your mouth shall say as a result. I do enjoy it," I chuckle. "'Tis an amazing feeling, to be in such awe of one's wife, and I hope – nay, I know – 'twill always be this way. Forgive me, for you are correct. You are a passionate woman, and this I have known since the moment we met. 'Tis one of the many reasons I fell in love with you. But I suppose, in our time apart, I forgot."

Finally, she offers me a smile, and when she reaches up and slips her arms around my neck, I know I am truly forgiven. My wife: quick to anger…yet quick to forgive.

"If you have forgotten, allow me to remind you; and also, allow me to suggest it might be time to cease talking."

I admit I am chuckling heartily as I lift my wife and carry her to our bed.

"You are an imp – 'tis another reason I fell for you."

"For the love of all, cease your talking, I beg of you, and just _take me_."

When she covers my mouth with hers, I cease both my talking and my laughter. Neither are unnecessary words uttered as I situate her in the middle of the mattress. With no more delay, I part her legs with mine, and I push myself inside.

How I have missed so much an act I performed only a handful of times, I know not. Neither do I know how I have lived without it…without my _wife_ , for two months.

There is no speech nor amusement, and there is very little further thought as all-consuming heat forces instinct to take over my body. I exhale heavily, while Isabella makes a soft sound part whimper and part moan as her back arches.

Neither do we begin slowly. 'Tis instantly a frenzy of mouths and hands everywhere. She fists my hair, my shoulders, then my backside. Her lips find mine, then she releases them in favor of my shoulder, soon releasing that as well so she may arch her back yet again. Meanwhile, I grip her long tresses between my hands, then I grip her hips and squeeze. My mouth finds her breasts, and as I thrust my hips, she meets me with equal fervor.

Somewhere, in the small part of my mind which has not completely lost the ability to reason, I realize that yes; this reaction from her be infinitely better than her laying still or moving with some lingering hesitance, as she did our first times together.

"Isabella…my love. My life."

Aye, in between groans, I break her command of silence. However, I do not believe she overly minds, for she replies with her own endearments.

"Edward…yes, Edward. Yes. You are my life as well, and we shall have…you and I shall have..."

She fists my hair in both hands and abruptly cries out to the ceiling, loudly, her features set in a look of such intensity that I instantly cease my thrusts, for I fear that in my vigor I have hurt her.

"No," she pants, her fingertips digging into my shoulders. "Do not stop, I beg of you. Do not stop."

Unwilling to make her ask twice, I resume my lovemaking, while her nails score my back, and she undulates wildly. Then, Isabella tightens around me in a way she has not before, not merely with her legs and her arms, but with _every_ fiber of her being. 'Tis enough to send me into a euphoric spiral. With a loud groan of my own, I quickly follow my wife into pleasurable oblivion.

And oblivion it is, for the next thing I know, I have rolled us over so that she rests atop me. Our chests heave, and I brush my mouth back and forth against her temple while raking my fingers through her long, disheveled hair.

"I have…the night before you left and that morning, when we made love, I had come to enjoy it. The closeness between us, your warm, strong body on mine, your tender kisses, your gentle touch, and…the sensation of you inside of me; all of it made the experience quite pleasant. Yet…what I just felt…that almost maddening intensity of pleasure, I did not feel that when we laid together previously – neither the night before nor that morning. Edward? What was that?"

She tilts her head upward and looks at me with a gaze so wondrously innocent, it fills my heart with love for her all the more. I do not even know how such a thing is possible.

"'Twas release, my love; the release which occurs when a husband properly pleasures his wife."

'Tis said somewhat smugly, I confess. Yet Isabella appears too bewildered to note or comment. Instead, she blinks her dark eyes slowly.

"Do _you_ feel that when you love me?"

"Aye," I whisper. "Every time."

" _Every time?"_ she echoes, lifting her head from my chest.

"Aye," I repeat, chuckling softly, "every time. 'Tis what causes me to spill my seed inside you. And I shall do my best to ensure you feel it every time I make love to you from now on."

"Every time," she breathes in open fascination, her gaze somewhere beyond me. Then, she meets my eyes with an impish smile. "Please ensure you do."

Again, I chuckle, then I tuck her into my side once more and sigh long and deeply.

"Isabella, let us recover our breaths, my love…and then…we shall leave this cocoon of ours. Unfortunately, the world still awaits us."

OOOOOOOOOO

 **Two Weeks Earlier: June 16, 1775 – Fort Ticonderoga, Lake Champlain, near the Province of Quebec**

We watch the newly arrived Colonel Hinman and his captains direct their thousand-strong regiment around various duties within and without the fort; he, in complete control now. We doubted, when he first arrived a fortnight ago, his claim that the Connecticut Provincial Congress had sent him to relieve Colonel Arnold of his command.

However, two days ago, Arnold received a missive from Massachusetts' Congress itself, which is why he has called the four of us, Jasper, Emmett, Jacob, and I, into this council.

"First, Ethan Allen and his band of outlaws attempted to take command of this exploit from me, despite lacking any official commission," Arnold seethes, glaring mutinously at the newly arrived men. "They even had the gall to return after they were chased away from Fort St. Jean by the Regulars. The only reason we rid ourselves of them was that the stores of liquor finally ran out. Now, _this_."

"Tis an insult," Jacob says.

"Tis a grievous insult," Emmett agrees.

"I agree. Nevertheless, 'tis your decision, Colonel Arnold," I say. "Have you come to one? Shall we remain under Hinman's command?"

"'Tis your decision, Colonel, aye," Jasper says, "yet _I_ would not remain under such conditions." As he speaks, Jasper's eyes quickly flash to me, then away and back to Arnold.

Arnold meets each of our gazes, then sighs. "Men, in these past two days, I have thought long and hard on this, aye; and I know the decision may be attributed by some to vanity, but there it is. No, I shall _not_ remain. There is much good I may still do for our cause, but I shall not do so from here while taking commands from another in a fort _I_ fought to capture."

"'Tis understandable, sir," Emmett says, and we all nod.

For a few moments, the five of us stand in our small circle, apart from the rest. Again, Arnold sighs.

"You have been loyal men, and I am exceedingly grateful. Therefore…" his eyes pan around our perimeter, and he drops his voice, "I shall request your loyalty to country and your trust in me once more before we depart."

"What is it, sir?" I ask.

Benedict holds my gaze long and hard. "In these past weeks, 'twas the five of us who took stock of all the weaponry and artillery in these forts."

"Yes, 'twas," I agree with a nod.

Arnold's eyes drift around the fort once more, and he scowls darkly. "How long believe you it will take these inexperienced men to organize themselves well enough to do what must be done; at least, in terms of transporting much-needed armaments to Boston in order to end that siege?"

"Weeks, I would assume," says Jacob.

"Months," says Jasper.

Arnold shakes his head and snorts bitterly, glaring at a group of men who begin walking in one direction, only to swiftly change course as if they have no clue where they go.

"Such stupid decisions our colonial congresses are making. They had _us_ here, knowledgeable and ready!"

He directs his eyes back to us and swallows. "I propose a mission, between the five of us. If we should be caught by Hinman or his men, they shall likely hang us. Yet, if we succeed, we may transport at least a small amount of these weapons and artillery to Massachusetts colony. It may be sufficient to keep some of our fellow patriots armed against the redcoats' oppression."

Her face is the first thing to flash before my eyes.

Yet, in a matter of minutes, a vote has been taken, and a unanimous decision made. Colonel Arnold shall disband all his men and allow them to return home or to wherever they wish. Emmett and I shall leave before daybreak with a full wagon. Jacob and Jasper shall follow a few hours later with another wagon. We discuss the men who can be trusted for inclusion in the mission, and who shall leave with additional wagons. Benedict shall send us all notice of when and where we are to meet to relay it all to Boston.

All the while, her beautiful face remains behind my lids.

When the rest of the men disband, I take a few minutes to steady myself, for I know if we are caught, we shall hang, and I shall never see my wife again.

But our cause _needs_ the armaments, and it needs them _now_.

"Did you agree because you truly felt Hinman's command was an insult to Benedict or did you agree…because you miss your wife and you wanted to return to her?"

I had not noted Jasper remained. Yet, before I may reply in the harsh manner I plan to, he continues.

"I see I have infuriated you with my question, yet I promise you, 'tis not my intent to insult Isabella or you in any way, Edward," he says quickly. "Recall I was one of those against Katrina's inventive proposal to abandon Isabella in the pine barrens after she snuck into your tavern; though, I agreed we needed a solution. I simply wonder what motivates you now – loyalty to country or longing for your wife."

Before replying, I draw in a few breaths, attempting to recall that Jasper and I have been friends since childhood…and accepting that his question be a valid one.

"Jasper, I know you have been uneasy with me since Colonel Arnold's decision to allow Ethan Allen and his men to proceed to Fort St. Jean."

"A decision he made on your advice, and now observe. Both Connecticut and Massachusetts' congresses issue him an insult."

"You believe one has to do with the other?"

"I do."

"I do not. I issued him that advice because embroiling ourselves in a fight with Allen and his men would have accomplished nothing and would have further hindered our mission."

"A mission which has ended, in either case."

"Aye. And aye, the congresses insult Arnold now by relieving him of his command, but what think you would have occurred had we fought within ourselves?"

"'Twould not have been fighting within ourselves, for Ethan Allen and his men are not part of us."

"Whether we like it or not, Jasper, they are, for they are men which will make up part of this nation, should we be victorious in building it into one. What is more, had we fought with Allen and his men, the division and lack of discipline would have made us vulnerable not only to the congresses' whim but all the worse, to the redcoats. This entire fort could have been lost."

He is silent.

"But your original question was regarding what motivates me, and I shall reply. I am motivated by the same which has motivated me since you and I became men old enough to realize we were oppressed men. I am motivated by love for our land and by my desire to see it become a true nation rather than thirteen divided and controlled colonies. But aye," I nod, "now, I am also motivated by love for a woman, and I shall not apologize for it, especially when I am now embarking on a mission which brings the danger all the closer to her. Do not question my loyalties now, Jasper." By the time I conclude, my chest heaves, and my nostrils flare.

"I do not question your loyalties, Edward; only which one takes precedence over the other. But I shall ask it no more, for you are correct. What we do now brings the danger closer to our homes, and as you have a wife to care for and I do not, you bear the greater risk."

When he walks away, Emmett approaches.

"I hope you do not take Jasper's musings to heart too much, Edward, for he was you just a few months ago."

I turn quickly and look at him. "Before Isabella," he clarifies.

As it is, Emmett and I do leave as planned. In fact, all goes as planned. We cross Lake Champlain into the Adirondack Mountains without issue, remaining in the northwestern part of New York, further from the Troubles, and through Syracuse and Rochester. All the while, our wagon remains covered in dirt and hay. No one questions us. Throughout our trek, we meet with fellow patriots, though we reveal the true contents of our wagon to no one.

Then, as the days pass, news of the events further to the east begin to make their way across the land in the manner in which news tends to travel, from rider to rider. But, 'tis not until the last bit of news that Emmett and I truly begin the trek for home like madmen; no longer careful with our smuggled shipment, with little sleep, less food, and even less conversation until we, at last, arrive at the outskirts of Monmouth County.

OOOOOOOOOO

Seth and a few of our men meet us a few miles from Cullen Hill. They have been carefully scouting the area as Father and I instructed should there be trouble.

By then, I barely manage to breathe the two words. "My wife?"

"She is well, Edward. She is at the house along with Mistress McCarty and your sister, Emmett. Edward, your father left a few days ago for Trenton!"

Everything beyond ' _She is well, Edward'_ vaguely registers - for me, at least. We hand over the carriage to the men and provide instruction on where to conceal its contents for the time being. Then, Emmett and I ride breakneck speed for the house. Exhausted, Aro is the faster of the horses. When I finally espy the house, I estimate Emmett be about a mile behind.

The sun has not yet broken through the sky, yet bands of light have formed in the distance providing some meager illumination. As I begin the ascent up the hill, my heart stills when a woman steps out. By the time she breaks into a sprint, I have determined 'tis not my Isabella, for this woman is flaxen-haired and taller than my wife. At first, I believe 'tis Rosalie, and I am fleetingly glad for Emmett, that he shall be in his wife's presence in a matter of minutes. Yet, I want _my_ wife.

When I am at the stables, I dismount Aro and shout out quick instructions to the groom for my wary horse's care. 'Tis then, as I race toward the house, that I realize the woman who has emerged from the house is not even Rosalie.

"Edward!" she cries. "You are returned!"

"My wife," I say as I pass her without pause or reply. "Where is my wife?"

Katrina emits some sound I have no time to examine nor acknowledge, for my pace only increases. When I am almost at the door, Rosalie does indeed step out.

"Edward?" she says in obvious shock, and in the next second, "Where is Emmett?"

"He is well. He is about two minutes behind me. Where is my wife?"

Stark relief marks her features, yet she does not reply to me.

"Where is my wife?" I repeat, almost shouting by this point.

"Be easy. She is well, Edward," Rosalie reassures me quickly. "She is upstairs in your chambers, asleep."

I swiftly cross the threshold into the house, further crossing the antechamber in two strides. My legs take the staircase two and three steps at a time. Voices reach me from below, Mrs. Clearwater's and Leah's, as I sprint through the hallway and finally reach my chamber... _our_ chamber doors. Heart hammering, I turn the doorknob and push one door open…

And there she be…fast asleep. In her night shift, her petite frame appears lost, curled in on itself as it be above the counterpane. Her dark hair is wildly splayed around the ivory pillow.

She is safe.

My Isabella.

My wife.

My _life_.

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **Ahem…A Quick History Lesson on Bathing Habits in Colonial America**

 **In summary, it didn't happen often.**

 **But, wait. For our story's purposes, let's say Edward and Bella bathed often if not actually daily, but if you want the truth of the times for everyone else…**

 **The truth of the times is that, on a normal, daily basis, the citizens of Colonial America didn't smell very pleasantly – whether loyalist or patriot, Whig or Tory. B.O. was rampant, yet few noticed because…well because it was rampant. When men and women of the highest societies walked around with handkerchiefs and little, flower-bouquets in hand, it wasn't always because they were going for the sophisticated look. Rather, as the men dabbed those hankies to their noses, those things were drowned in perfume to drown out the stank. The ladies used flowers in a similar manner.**

 **Baths were rarely taken in those days for a host of reasons. For one, everyone "knew" that too much bathing stripped a body of its natural oils and left it exposed to various diseases. For another, modern plumbing was nonexistent, so bathing meant carrying heavy buckets of water from rivers, streams, or wells, then heating it in hearths. Then, you had to lug the wooden tub from wherever it was stored, find somewhere to put it, and then lug the water from the kitchen's hearth to wherever you'd placed the tub.**

 **Yeah, I'm exhausted from just writing about it. We haven't even discussed the** _ **making**_ **of the soap (from such lovely ingredients as herbs, wood ashes, and animal fat, by the way).**

 **Very few families had a dedicated "tub room." (But let's keep pretending our Patriotward did). Therefore, daily "ablutions" usually consisted of a cloth dipped into a washbasin and hastily passed here and there. Done. Washed. Clean. Once in a while, on special occasions, the soap and the tub would make an appearance.**

 **Don't get me started on teeth. As mentioned earlier in the story (because Edward and Isabella were, of course, at the forefront of colonial hygiene), very primitive methods were** _ **sometimes**_ **used to clean teeth, such as twigs and sprigs, or cloths dipped in a mixture of salt, chalk, and mint. You can imagine how effective that was.**

 **Or better yet, don't. ;)**

 **I'll make no apology if you read more than a few scenes where our hero and heroine are taking care of their hygiene because no. Just no.**

" **See" you guys next week.**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**


	20. Ch 18 - The Incident in Town Square

**A/N: Thank you all so much for your wonderful thoughts. I haven't had a chance over the past couple of chapters to thank you guys personally for your thoughts and reviews, but please know how much I enjoy them, and how much it means to me to know you're enjoying the story. Sometimes, with limited time, I have to choose between replying to reviews or writing the next chapter. Love you all for understanding. 3**

 **Right now, for example, while I'd love to finish this chapter, I've got a crazy afternoon ahead of me, so I'm going to have to split this chapter in half and hopefully get a chance to finish up the second half of it tomorrow. :)**

 **Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to either history or to me.**

 **Chapter 18 – The Incident in the Town Square**

* * *

 **Cullen House - June 30, 1775**

"Edward, if at all possible while you are in town, please ensure my father is well. And if he is indeed well…promise me you shall not attempt to change that state of affairs."

I exhale heavily.

Like a vision of innocence mingled with seductiveness, Isabella sits on the edge of our bed watching me dress. She is wrapped in nothing more than the blanket over which we made love just a short while earlier. Only her head full of loose tendrils and her small, bare feet peek out from either end of the coverlet. I, on the other hand, sit begrudgingly fully-dressed opposite her on one of the two chairs in our chamber. With the excuse of pulling up my boots, I pull my eyes away from her.

'Tis not Isabella with whom I am upset nor do I begrudge my wife the need to leave her so soon after laying with her. Time both with Isabella and apart from her provides perspective, and I now understand better that my wife is blameless of those wayward beliefs with which she was raised. Further still, this time with her and apart also bring into sharper focus those changes occurring within her beliefs. Even in the short time since my return, I note them, though I do not think she quite notes them herself yet.

'Tis her father, whom even as she makes her request, I curse silently for the discussion in which my wife and I are now forced to partake. I cursed him for the pain in her voice when she told me of her disagreement with him when she was unable able to deny to him I was a patriot. I cursed him for the disappointment caused her when he refused to interfere in her friend, Mary Alice's unfortunate plight. And I curse him most severely for the havoc he wrought in town, which necessitates my leaving my beloved's warm embrace so soon after our reunion.

"'Tis not a simple request you make of me, Isabella, if half the rumors of what occurs in town be true."

The thoughts churning in my head have roughened my voice. She does not immediately reply. When I finish tying my boots, I still cannot meet her gaze. Hypocrite that I am, we have been apart these two months, and now, when she asks me for this promise, I do not believe I can give it to her. Yet, I keep secrets, for I know not how to tell her of the smuggled shipment and thereby the danger _I_ have brought to our door.

Instead, I rest my elbows on my thighs and thread my hands over the expanse between my legs, keeping my eyes on the wooden floor like a coward.

"My father is not a bad man, Edward; though, I know on the surface, his beliefs clash grievously with yours."

I cannot withhold a snort. "On the surface, Isabella?"

She speaks over me. "But I also know him better than does anyone. Whatever has occurred in town, I am positive his intent was neither to harm nor humiliate. He only ever desires to serve and protect."

"Aye, he desires to serve and protect those who would harm and humiliate us – a much nobler intention, indeed."

My regret for the acrimony with which I have spoken is immediate and grows as a long silence stretches between us. Then, her bare feet touch the wood floor, and in the next second, I feel the glorious weight of my wife as she situates herself sideways on my lap and winds her arms 'round my shoulders. The coverlet remains on the bed.

When I look up, she locks me in her gaze, yet my shame lingers and only allows my hands the barest grip around her waist.

"I apologize for my bluntness."

"But not for your words."

"I…" I shake my head. "Isabella, I cannot…"

She places a slim finger on my lips.

"Edward, I do not begrudge your bluntness, nor do I expect you to apologize for speaking your beliefs. The fact that you speak so freely to me, no matter what you say, is one of the many reasons why I have come to love you so."

Yet more shame and guilt fill me, and I exhale it all in a heavy breath. "Isabella, I must-"

"What is more, Edward, I know you well enough by now, my husband, to know you shall not compromise those beliefs, and I respect you all the more for it."

"Isabella…" Swallowing, I rest my forehead on hers, "I do love you so, and I would give you the world if I could."

Her gentle hands cradle my face and force my eyes back to hers.

"I do not ask you for the world. You do not like my father, but I do not ask you to like him. I only ask you to _try_ , as much as is in your power, to see that his beliefs are steeped in a lifetime of service. And though that service may be to a crown you abhor, pray make an attempt, for the sake of our…" – she pauses and swallows thickly – "for the sake of our family, to see that my father is a soldier to a cause, as are you. Can you promise me that much, that you shall _try_ to see these things?"

I hold her dark gaze. "I promise I shall _try_."

Such a smile of relief tinged with a touch of remaining sadness overspreads her lovely face, it spears me. "And I thank you for the attempt."

My finger traces the outline of her softly upturned lips. "Isabella, I would concede to that and so much more for the pleasure of this lovely smile directed at me."

She chuckles lightly. "You would do what you deemed correct whether it made me smile or not, and as I said, it may not always please me, but I do respect you for it. What is more, I know it does not mean you do not love me, for as much as I adore your smile as well, I would do the same."

I smirk at her. "Such an imp."

My wife grins wryly, but in the next moment, she speaks with much more sobriety.

"I believe, Edward, 'tis our willingness to accept this trait in one another which allows the union between us to work."

I search her eyes, for 'tis almost as if she knows exactly what I need to hear. "Do you truly believe that, Isabella?"

"Yes, Edward. I do."

Again, she smiles, yet this time when the smile dissipates, 'tis replaced with another look I am unaccustomed from my young wife. Yet, 'tis a look I am easily beginning to recognize, especially as she slowly leans in and brushes her soft lips against mine.

At first, her kiss is as dove feathers gently flapping back and forth in the breeze. However, when she takes my bottom lip between hers and runs her tongue along its underside…there is nothing dovelike about my wife. My grip on her waist tightens.

"Now go," the imp says as she pulls away, "so that you may return to me all the sooner. In the meantime, as there is much to do around here, I shall write Alice a hasty letter issuing her an invitation to Cullen House, as we agreed."

"Very well, Isabella, but if her father be as pigheaded as you describe, I ask that you not get your hopes up too high, for he shall likely not allow her to visit, especially with the state of matters now both in New York and here."

"I know, Edward, and I shall not." She then begins to lift herself from my lap.

"Where do you think you go?" I ask, maintaining my grip on her waist.

"I must write, Edward. Then, I must join all the women downstairs, for they likely wonder where I am at this time of morning."

I lift an eyebrow. "I am sure they do not wonder overly much of your whereabouts, my wife, with your husband just returned to you."

Her brow furrows for just one moment before understanding marks her features, and her cheeks pink as she bites her bottom lip. 'Tis this mixture in all things, such intelligence mingled with such naivete, which fascinates me.

"Oh."

"Moreover," I continue, "Rosalie and Katrina have left, for Rosalie has her own husband returned to her. You need not concern yourself that too many women await you. Therefore..." As I speak, I lower my mouth to her bosom, my tongue licking its way to the top swells.

Her hands gently fist my hair as her chest heaves against my mouth. When she speaks, her voice is not as steady as it was. "'Tis thoughtless of me to forget Rosalie's own joy," she breathes. "I shall miss her today, though I cannot say I am not glad she took her sister-in-law with her."

My mouth pauses just above her a temptingly pink nipple as I look up sharply.

"Has Katrina said or done something to upset you, Isabella?"

I know my wife was once led to believe Katrina McCarty meant more to me than was the case. 'Tis yet another reason for me to hate my old friend and her loyalist, one-time suitor, James Pitman, as well as another grudge against her father, whom I have promised to _try_ to understand.

"'Tis nothing I cannot handle, my love."

My nostrils flare. "Are you sure?"

"Quite," she smiles. Then, she lifts her own eyebrow. "Now, pray cease discussions of Katrina while your mouth hovers so near _my_ bosom…and continue what you were doing, for we must be quick, yet you have wound me tight, and I cannot let you go until you make me feel that wonderful thing named _release_ once more."

" _Ohh, Isabella_ ," I exhale in a heavy breath. "I shall be quick; nevertheless, I shall bring you that release you desire." Then, as promised, I swiftly lift off the chair enough to pull down my breeches and situate my unclothed wife astride me properly so that I may sink us into our own, personal heaven.

OOOOOOOOOO

The first thing I note as Emmett and I approach town is the relative silence, though it be a market day. On market days, with the hustle and bustle of trade, silence, whether relative or not, should be nonexistent.

I espy Mr. Avery, philosopher, and composer of the patriotic pamphlets disseminated in these parts, as he enters the printer's shop. He carries an unremarkable-looking packet under his arm, nodding in greeting at the two redcoats flanking the shop door. From where I sit atop Aro, I watch his eyes shift from side to side as he turns to close the door. Just before he pushes it closed all the way, his eyes meet Emmett's and mine.

A pair of men exit the tailor's shop with less shadowed expressions – for known loyalists they be, with few concerns beyond breaking the embargo on wigs and frocks purchased from the loyalist tailor. Their carefree laughter carries all the louder in the strange silence of the day. Only when they see our fiery countenance does this amusement cease.

From the post office emerge a group of men, known and trusted by us, as they joined in our endeavor a few months back, when we dumped traitorous tea into the waters of Cohansey Creek. They see Emmett and me, which is why they emerge from the post office. Yet, the fact that they are in the post office rather than in the tavern further sets me on edge.

Speaking to Emmett, who flanks me on my right, I gesture with my chin toward the men. "Find out from our friends what all we have missed."

Emmett growls lowly. "Oh, I plan to." He nudges his horse's flank and makes his way toward the post office. With an outward breath, I continue onward.

The sound of the blacksmith's sledgehammer is yet another sound which should not be so discernable this late morn. It reaches me even before Aro turns the bend. Samuel Uley is leaned over his forge, pounding away at a red-hot piece of iron over the fiery hearth. When he looks up, heavy beads of sweat drip from his upper lip to his chin before falling like rain into the fire. Yet, he does not pause in his rhythmic hammering, not even as we exchange stiff nods.

I guide Aro past Colin's – the patriot brickmaker – glowing kiln and past the loyalist apothecary. All the while, as red coats color my vision, patrolling every shop and landmark I pass with rifles over their shoulders, the fury within me builds. 'Tis a struggle to recall the promise my wife extracted from me just a short while earlier.

Finally, Aro and I reach the town square, that wide, common expanse where the village carries on most of its daily socialization and commerce. It being a market day, the absence of cattle, provisions, and wares for sale is quite notable – as is the increase in the size of the royal regiment, whom now muster in those streets once lined by the market. Freehold being the county seat, the white-shingled courthouse stands at the northern edge of the square. All the way at the opposite end is my father's and my tavern. The space between is lined by the finest homes in town. The main one once belonged to the Smythe family. Now, it quarters the _Major_.

And in the center of the square is where the usually empty stock and pillory be, for punishment is a social event. Yet Freehold, though a bustling town where people of varied backgrounds and beliefs reside and do business, has ever been relatively peaceful.

The stock and pillory are not empty this morn. There is a man imprisoned within. About a dozen additional men known to me are tied in a circle 'round it while a half-dozen soldiers from the green-coated _Royal Americans for Peace_ regiment guard these men – who are their own neighbors.

My mind and my vision are full of nothing more than pure hatred as I break Aro into a full gallop. At the same time, I reach upward for the rifle hanging from my shoulder. 'Tis only as Isabella's face abruptly replaces the hatred that I blink, and my vision clears. I bring Aro to a grinding halt mere yards from the stocks and a fraction of a second before the soldiers look up and see me. Swiftly, they reach for their rifles.

"Stop right there, sir!"

My militia men espy me as well. They shake their heads almost imperceptibly, for I cannot free them, and 'twould have been suicide to attempt it. I am the best shot in Monmouth County, aye, but I am one against too many.

In the meanwhile, the soldier who instructed me to stop though I was already stopped now holds up his rifle.

"Hand over your rifle, sir."

"I shall not," I snort derisively.

Two more rifles are raised toward me. "Oh, yes you shall, sir."

"On whose orders?" I sneer.

"On the orders of Major Swan, commanding officer in His Majesty's service."

I shut my eyes momentarily. _My wife, I do not know if I can keep my promise._

"This reeks of martial law," I seethe as I reopen my eyes.

"Martial law it be, sir, until further notice," confirms the first soldier. "No pistols, rifles, or weapons of any kind are to be carried in Freehold Township, other than by his majesty's soldiers. Now, hand over your rifle, sir. It shall be returned to you once you leave town."

More than a handful of seconds transpire.

"Sir, hand over your rifle!"

"Hand over the rifle, Edward. As Ensign Jenks says, it shall be returned to you once you leave town."

"Hell and damnation. Bastard," I mutter, easily recognizing the voice. Yet, I do not look down at him. Instead, I keep my burning gaze on the soldiers.

"Ready your weapons! Now, for the sake of our friendship, I shall ask you once more, Edward. Hand over the rifle or Isabella shall be a widow by noon."

Aye, he has said what must be said to convince me. What he does not realize, however, is that he has also uttered the name I never want to hear from _his_ filthy mouth. After a few more, long moments, I reach slowly for my rifle, hold it out in front of me, and drop it to the ground.

James chuckles, for he believes he now has the upper hand. Isabella asked for no promises regarding James.

"Now, come inside your tavern, Edward, for we have been awaiting your arrival."

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **I shall try to post the rest of this chapter tomorrow. If I can't, have a great weekend, and "see" you early next week.**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**


	21. Ch 19 The Incident with the Tricorn

**A/N: *Sigh* See, what happens is, when I write, I have these basic outlines of what's going to happen in each chapter. But then, when I start actually writing the chapter, 99 percent of the time, it's those darn details that make the chapters just grow and grow. So basically, what I thought would happen in Ch. 18 gets pushed back to Ch. 19, then Ch. 20…etc., or else, we'd have ten thousand word chapters, lol.**

 **All that is to say, since I said I'd try to update again today, here's at least a short chapter. I'll try to update again early next week to get to what I thought we would've gotten to already last chapter, lol. (If that makes any sense). We'll see. :)**

 **Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to either history or me.**

* * *

 **Chapter 19 – The Incident with the Tricorn**

As soon as I dismount Aro, the dragoon James calls Jenks rushes forward as if readying to take the reins from me.

"Ensign, my musket I yielded you with little issue, but the only way you shall have these reins from me is if you pry them from my cold, dead hands."

When Aro throws back his large, ebony head and releases a series of anxious grunts, the ensign takes a swift step back.

"Sir, I…" he stutters, his rounded eyes on the thoroughbred, "I merely meant to tie-"

James snickers behind me. "Lay off, Jenks, and allow the man to secure his horse. There are few things Edward values more than his ebony beast. Edward, I give you my word; no one shall touch, Aro."

I neither reply nor look at him, for I require a few moments to compose myself lest I do something insane. As I secure Aro to the post, I shut my eyes for one moment. There is a furious tempo beating within my chest. It magnifies the fire scalding my veins and intensifies the sharp pinpricks at my scalp.

Swallowing, I recall the vision of my wife this morn, standing resplendent before the windows with the sun's rays illuminating both her naked form and all that within her both beautiful and innocent.

 _Help me not fail her._

The memory of that vision shall forever be my calming amulet. With a long, deep breath, I turn and make my way into my tavern.

OOOOOOOOOO

The commotion within the tavern is at total odds with the subdued atmosphere without. Despite my inward preparations, the cacophony takes me by surprise – yet not as much as does the sight before me.

My father's and my tavern, our haven for brotherhood, for those believers in our Cause, the very place where we gather for daily discussion and plans toward our struggle for freedom…now crawls with Lobsterbacks.

"Mother of all…"

Such fire licks at my soul I know not how I shall keep from howling at the top of my lungs.

Like scarlet rodents, they are everywhere – scurrying to and fro, at every table in their bright coats and white wigs, laughing merrily and jesting with one another as they imbibe from our tankards. They bang these tankards against the wooden tables and the walls as they toast one another. The man behind the counter grins at their asinine behavior, for a known loyalist he be. He is indeed not the man Father and I left in charge – for the man we left in charge currently sits on the dirt-ground outside, tied to more of our brothers.

For a few moments, I can neither move nor swallow.

In the meanwhile, James strides toward the bar counter, the gold-braided hem of his sickeningly green dragoon coat waving behind him. He greets a couple of dragoons already standing there as he lifts a tankard, which has been awaiting him. When he brings it to his mouth, he swills its contents in large, noisy gulps 'til the tankard is vertical. Only then does he pull away from the empty container, banging it on the counter as he makes a sound of pure appreciation.

"Ahhh! Another!" he instructs the loyalist bartender.

"Yes, sir."

Aye, the bastard is enjoying every moment of this. When he finally turns to acknowledge me, his sneer is as predictably taunting as I imagined. He knows well what I now witness is one of the biggest insults he can ever offer me.

"Come join us, Edward!" he calls.

But as he stood there, playing his part, I have had sufficient time to compose myself. Removing my tri-cornered hat, I school my features and make my way forward.

The falter in James' smug grin lasts merely a fraction of a moment, barely noticeable to anyone who has not known the man since he was pissing in his short pants. I imagine by this point, he hoped I would have already provided an excuse to pull muskets on me, and the impassiveness in my face confounds him. Yet, he recovers quickly, and as he languidly leans a forearm over the counter, what ensues is a game of cat and mouse he and I have played many times before.

"How goes the farm business?" He grins. "You and our friends have been away for some time."

"It goes well, James," I reply evenly as I rest my hat on the counter. "'Tis harvest time; therefore, harvest business becomes the priority. Although you being the magistrate's son, you would not know of harvests, would you?" I grin.

He laughs heartily and claps me on the shoulder before once more lifting the tankard, which is refilled for him.

"I would not," he admits readily.

"He is _Captain_ Pitman now as his stripes indicate, disrespectful farmboy, and you shall address him as such!"

The command erupts just to my right side. With a curious sort of grin, I turn slowly toward a dragoon, whose mouth is twisted in a scowl.

"Is it now? Interesting."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" James cuts in. He sets down his tankard and stands between us, frowning deeply. "Easy, Ensign. 'Tis you who should be showing respect. Why, do you not know who this be?"

The ensign appears lost.

"He is one of the owners of this fine establishment and therefore responsible for the merriment in which you have been partaking as well as the fine…imported spirits which you have been enjoying the past, few days. Is that not right, Edward?" His grin widens all the more.

For a handful of seconds, I merely hold his gaze. Then, I snort. "Aye. Aye, that is correct, _James_ ," I stress, for I shall address him as Captain when my cock falls off.

Once again, there is a slight, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips. Whether it be because I have not addressed him as Captain or because I have not attempted to deny anything, I know not. Likely, 'tis a combination of the two.

"Forgive the ensign, Edward, for he is newly arrived from New York Colony and not yet familiar with our neighborhood."

I shrug carelessly.

"We have had…an interesting few days here in Freehold Township."

"I have heard."

His eyes tighten at my seemingly nonchalant attitude. Once more, he picks up his tankard.

"You and our friends have been away for long, Edward, on your _farmboy_ business, and you have missed much."

I chuckle lightly. "We have heard that your new major and your regiment are at the heart of all which has occurred."

He and his fellow dragoons surrounding us laugh. They take swigs and wipe their disgusting faces with the back of their hands, shake those spittle-filled hands over my floors and the counter, bump and elbow my hat with their dirty, filthy arms and hands.

"Take care with my hat, if you will," I say. "'Twas a gift from my father."

"Take care you do not disturb his hat, men," James says. "Edward is ever careful with his belongings."

Still, I grin.

"Aye; the major and our regiments quelled the rebels' attempt to rise against the crown. 'Twas a bit chaotic," James muses after another swallow. "So many men we considered friends turned out to be nothing more than rebel patriots, who thought they would rule Freehold. Now, look at them," he sneers, gesturing with his pointed chin toward the stocks and pillory outside.

I cross my arms over my chest in a show of indifferent apathy. "To rule Freehold was _their_ intent? Truly?"

James nods slowly. "Which is why we now celebrate. We have quelled their rebellion, taken their weapons, and if they do not swear an oath of allegiance to His Majesty, then there is a prison ship in New York Colony awaiting them." When he raises his tankard to me and takes another swig, he keeps his eyes closely on me.

"How did you insert yourself into my tavern, James?"

His ensuing snicker almost breaks me. _Almost_.

"Martial law was declared for all of Monmouth County, and as such, every building and property in the county is now open to search, and if applicable, to seizure." The widest grin yet overspreads his face. "Imagine my surprise when we searched the tavern and found the best smuggled rum in all of Monmouth County."

And there it be: my crime spoken aloud; though, little does he know it be the lesser by far of many crimes I have committed, and which I am ready to commit at the moment.

Wild laughter erupts all around us.

"I thank you," I say with a slow nod. "We are proud indeed of our rum, for 'tis made from the finest molasses on the islands, and aged for many months in oak barrels. But I should not be surprised you enjoy it, for you have experienced it many times in the past."

Here, the grin he sports dissolves completely. "I have _not_ ," he seethes, banging down his tankard over the counter. "I had no awareness of your smuggling activities."

Silence.

Tilting my head, I lift an eyebrow before making a show of drawing in a breath and releasing it slowly.

"In the past, James, I have allowed you to partake at no cost, for we are good friends, are we not?" I grin mockingly. "However," – again, I make a show, this time of sweeping my gaze 'round the red-and-green-coat-infested tavern – "as it appears you and your other friends have had quite the celebration, and I would wager a goodly amount that very few, if any, oak barrels of rum remain, I am afraid I shall have to charge you for the entire shipment."

I take full advantage of James' gaping mouth to continue.

"So, let us see. Twenty barrels of Caribbean rum, each barrel holding twenty-six gallons, is five hundred and twenty gallons. The current price on Caribbean rum be two shillings, five pence per gallon, which means you owe a tab of…" I squint an eye and look up at the wood-beamed ceiling as I perform the mental calculations, "sixty-two pounds, eighty-three shillings, and one pence," I say, returning my eyes to James. "And I shall like payment now if you please."

"Are you…are you jesting me?" James inquires when he recovers the ability to speak. "Believe you that I asked you in here so that I may recompense you for your smuggled rum?" He lays a hand on my shoulder. "Edward, my _friend_ , your recompense shall be the stocks." The rest of his words are hissed through clenched teeth. His grip on my shoulder tightens as his grip on his feigned composure weakens, for I have always, _always_ been the one who knows how to undo him. "You are a _thief_ , a sneak of the worst kind. What think you we have been awaiting here as we enjoyed your smuggled wares?"

I merely keep my arms crossed in front of me, watching him.

"Friend," he scoffs. "You and I quit being friends the day you stole-"

"James, refrain from speaking the rest of that thought; I warn you." Now, I am the one who speaks through clenched teeth, for I also know James knows not how to heed a warning.

"-the day you stole Isabella-"

I throw off James' grip on me so swiftly he falls back against the counter and topples his tankard. As the molasses liquid splatters, I reach to the side of him, and under my now rum-soaked hat for the knife it conceals, holding it to his throat before he even straightens.

"That is twice you have spoken her name. There shall _not_ be a third."

Chaos erupts around me, and I know I am mere seconds away from being either shot or run through.

"Hold back your fellow dragoons," I sneer, pushing the very tip of the blade against his skin.

"Stop! Stop!" he yells. "Everyone, stay back!"

"I do not ever, _ever_ want to hear her name fall from your filthy mouth again," I hiss. "Is that understood?"

"You shall hear nothing for you shall hang for this," he breathes in return. "And then _I_ -"

"ENOUGH!"

The uproar ceases instantly, but I ignore the command, which came from behind me, from the direction of the tavern doors.

"Then you _what_?" I demand.

"Mr. Cullen, step back!" Major Swan orders. I vaguely hear him ask in furiously rushed tones, "Did he strike him?"

"No, sir. He pushed off the captain's hand, and aye, he is holding the blade to this throat, but he has not struck him."

"Then you WHAT?" I howl, digging in the blade enough to pierce James' skin. He releases a sharp grunt through his nostrils, his glare overflowing with pure loathing, but he does not reply.

"Mr. Cullen, step back this instant, and drop the blade!"

"Then I will be alive…and you will not," James smirks.

"That is not what you were going to say," I snarl.

"It is."

"It is NOT WHAT YOU WERE GOING TO SAY!"

"MR. CULLEN, THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING! Step back from the captain, and set down your blade, or you _shall_ hang!"

"Edward! Damnation! Edward, think of Isabella!"

'Tis Emmett. Her name spoken by a friend rather than foe recalls that image to me…of my wife standing by the window with the morning sun on her.

 _Help me not fail her._

My nostrils flare. I blink successively. Then…I set down the knife on the counter and take a step back.

James straightens and delivers a fisted blow to my jaw. I stumble back a half-step, yet before I may retaliate, the Major shouts,

"HOLD THEM BOTH BACK!"

The next thing I know, there are more than a few pairs of arms wound 'round me.

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **So, did I leave you all in a better or in a worse place for the weekend? Lol. Either way, enjoy your weekend. :)**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**


	22. Ch 20 - The Incident in the Drawing Room

**A/N: Thank you all so much for your wonderful thoughts. Summer days are busier than winter days, and in an effort to get these chapters out, I can't give them as much of a run-through as I'd prefer. Therefore, I apologize in advance for any glaring mistakes, grammatical or otherwise. (Like right now, for example, my daughter is rushing me, so I can take her to dance class, lol). ;)**

 **Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to either history or to me.**

* * *

 **Chapter 20 – The Incident in the Drawing Room**

 **Isabella**

In daylight, Cullen Hill is a vibrantly colorful sight. The land appears almost as a warm, living entity with multi-hued wildflowers, verdant vegetation, and the lush harvest of the summer.

This eve, from the Great Room windows, the white moon casts a cool, indigo glow upon everything it touches. 'Tis the second full moon this month – a peculiar occurrence indeed – and the strange view it provides is what I imagine the hill shall resemble in the cold of a New Jersey winter.

"They should have returned hours ago."

"Aye," Rosalie agrees. "They should have."

Despite the stifling heat within the house, a shiver runs through me.

Rosalie and I stand together by the windows, waiting for something out of the ordinary to alter the icy view; perhaps a bright hue of color or preferably, two riders following the curve of the hill upward. The fields undulate languidly in the meager breeze, yet nothing more breaks the stillness.

"If 'tis what I suspect, I shall murder someone."

Rosalie chuckles humorlessly. "I would not put it past you, and I suppose I know whom you plan to murder – that is if our husbands have not already done the duty."

I merely side-eye her, for I do not wish to look away and miss my husband's return. Neither do I turn away when Mrs. Clearwater enters the room.

"Mistress Cullen, Mrs. McCarty, may I get either of you anything?"

"Some tea would be welcome, please, Mrs. Clearwater, steeped from any herb you should encounter. This eve, I am not of a mind to note the difference."

"Yes, Mistress Cullen," the lady replies. The concern in her voice is plain, and I know 'tis both for me as well as for my husband.

"And if Seth is still awake," I say, though I know he is, "please direct him to me."

"Yes, Mistress." This she says with much more hesitance.

When Mrs. Clearwater's receding footsteps and the billow of her skirts indicate she has left the room, Rosalie pulls her gaze away from the window. In my periphery, I see her eyes sweep to me.

"Well, at the very least, we do not have my sister-in-law here to add to the issue. Her brother had a few words with her after I told him of the disrespectful manner in which she spoke to you."

"Aye, before he left, Edward told me your husband requested a couple of the men guard around your home rather than Katrina come here while they were gone into town. I suspect the idea was as much his as it was Emmett's. I do not know why everyone appears to believe I need protection from Katrina McCarty or from anyone."

"Perhaps because certain, past actions lead some to suspect you tend to lack caution. Isabella, why do you ask for Seth? What foolishness plan you now?"

"You know very well what I plan, and whether 'tis foolish or not be entirely subjective."

"Foolishness it be, indeed, Isabella. _No_."

Slowly, I force my eyes away from the window to meet her gaze. "What mean you, _No?_ "

"I mean Edward will _not_ be pleased."

"That goes without saying," I snort, shrugging my shoulders, "yet I shall do so all the same."

"And _this_ is why everyone believes you need protection."

Seth appears as Rosalie and I are locked eyes.

"Mistress Cullen, you sent for me?"

Breaking away from Rosalie, I turn to Seth. "Aye, Seth. Please do me the favor of saddling Hope."

A deep frown mars Seth's brow. "If I may be allowed, Mistress, for what purpose?"

When I lived in my father's household, to allow such an impertinent question would have been unthinkable and grounds for immediate dismissal. However, I have begun to adapt to the ways of these patriot colonists, who hold rank distinction in much less regard than do those whom still follow the ways of the Mother Country. Nevertheless, when I reply, I do so firmly, for acclimation or not, I do not plan to be questioned again on this particular subject.

"For the purpose of riding her to town to discover what keeps Mr. Cullen and Mr. McCarty."

When Seth releases a long breath and shuts his eyes, I do understand his struggle, for his job is to protect – but not to continue contradicting his mistress.

"Mistress, we have already sent men to town, and I pray you not-"

"I know you have sent men, but they have not returned. Please saddle Hope for me as quickly as you may." Much as 'tis discomfiting to do so when I know Seth means well, my tone brooks no room for further argument.

"Seth, you may saddle _my_ horse instead," Rosalie says.

My scalp prickles with indignation as I turn sharply toward her. "Rosalie, pray do not ask for my requests to be disregarded. Seth, ready Hope, please."

By this point, my voice has risen an octave, and somewhere deeply hidden within me, I know 'tis more a result of my fear for what might have occurred in town rather than fury toward Rosalie or Seth.

"Aye, ma'am." His reply is delivered hastily as he turns to leave.

"Seth, please wait. Isabella, I apologize; I truly do, and I promise you, 'tis not my intent to make any attempt at usurpation of your rightful authority in your household." Rosalie's voice takes on that soothing, calming tone I imagine she utilizes with panicking women. "Nevertheless, if you slow down for a handful of moments, I believe you shall see there are many reasons why I should ride to town, and not yourself."

"You shall have to point them out to me, for I do not see them at all," I hiss, curling my hands around my hips.

Her eyes trail down to my mid-section, where she stops and lifts a meaningful eyebrow. For one, horrifying moment, I fear she shall actually speak the words to the room at large. And though only she, Seth, and I are in the room, I have not spoken to my husband of it. Therefore, I am not prepared to have it confirmed so openly.

Apparently, however, I do not give Rosalie sufficient credit, for when she speaks, the reason she gives is much more benign.

"Isabella, as much as you have improved, you are still not the strongest of riders, and as I have told you, hereabouts we ride astride for expediency."

"I am riding to Freehold Town not all the way to New York Colony," I counter through clenched teeth. "My current riding skills will suffice."

"What is more, _I_ have a blade hidden in my stockings," she says, "and therefore, I shall be safer than shall you."

"For the love…" Seth chokes in a strangled voice from where he has stood largely silent and mostly forgotten. He fists his hair with both hands. "Mistress Cullen, Mrs. McCarty, I beg you both reconsider. We have sent men into town."

At that moment, Mrs. Clearwater reenters the room carrying the tea tray. "Here we go; nice, calming tea."

"Mrs. Clearwater," I say, my gaze locked with Rosalie's in this battle of wills, "pray bring me the knife used to butcher the hogs."

Mrs. Clearwater gasps loudly. In my periphery, I see her suddenly halt, which causes the tea things on the tea tray to rattle dangerously.

Rosalie simply laughs. "Isabella, are you familiar with that knife? 'Tis as long as are your legs."

"Very well," I huff, "then please bring me the bread knife, so I may be on my way."

"Isabella..." Rosalie begins _yet again._

"Mistress Cullen…"

"Mistress, I _beg_ you; do not go anywhere in your del-"

I quell the rest of Mrs. Clearwater's unguarded words with a sharp look.

"'Tis no use, Mrs. Clearwater," Rosalie says, her eyes remaining on me as she purses her lips. "Your mistress is as stubborn as is her husband."

"Everyone's protests notwithstanding, let us speak plainly, for all in this room know quite well why _I_ should be the one to go into town. 'Tis more than likely all this somehow relates to my father, and no one will be able to reason with him the way I may reason with him."

When Rosalie draws in a deep breath, releasing it slowly yet with no additional words, I know she sees the truth of my statement.

"Mistress," Seth says, "if you will insist on riding into town, I cannot stop you, but I shall accompany you and Mistress McCarty. I shall leave Brady in charge of the remaining men while we are gone."

I throw up my hands. "The entire household may mount a horse and accompany me if they so wish – except you, Mrs. Clearwater," I say quickly. "I shall not have you or Leah venturing outside this house tonight. But let us go. The time grows later and later."

 _And my terror mounts more and more, for if we are too late…if something irreversible has occurred…_

Though I do not voice these fears, despite her arguments against my venturing into town, I see from Rosalie's expression she feels the same.

"Yes, let us go. It indeed does grow late…and perhaps you _are_ the only one able to reason with your father," she says.

With that resolved, we move with much more haste. Seth disappears to ready the horses, and Rosalie dons her cloak while Mrs. Clearwater reluctantly yet swiftly retrieves my cloak.

"Mrs. Clearwater, I shall likely expire in this heavy cloak before we are even midway to town," I protest as she wraps the wool item tightly 'round me. "May I not wear my lighter one?"

"Pray, at least heed me in this, my young mistress," she pleads. "The night air is not good for you _nor for the child_." She adds the last, few words in a whisper, unable to contain them, I suppose.

With a sigh and a roll of my eyes, I heed her request. Despite all our nerves, Rosalie laughs aloud.

OOOOOOOOOO

Once outside by the stables and away from Mrs. Clearwater's watchful gaze, I remove my cloak as Seth leads Hope out to me. He assists me first onto my mare and then he moves on to assist Rosalie onto her horse. The moment Seth mounts his own horse, a call comes from the darkness.

"Riders coming in!"

For one moment, I am overcome with relief, until the man charged with keeping lookout continues.

"At least a dozen, and they come in quick!"

"Friends or foes?" Seth questions furiously.

"We cannot tell yet!"

 _We cannot tell yet._

'Tis then when it strikes me in a way it has not struck me before. What shall determine whether those riders be friends or foes? If they wear red coats, as my father wears a red coat, they shall instantly be labeled foes. Anything other shall instantly mark them as friends. And as I sit astride my horse, waiting for the light of the moon to indicate what color the riders' coats be, it strikes me all the more forcefully what this shall, perhaps forever, mean for me.

My entire body goes so rigid Hope feels it, and she whinnies in confusion.

"Ready your weapons!" Seth instructs.

"NO!" I shout. My poor mare is startled into a sideways trot, and I must pull hard to steady her. "Allow them to identify themselves!"

In the darkness, I see the whites of Seth's eyes as they widen. "Mistress Cullen, we must defend the land!"

"Yes, we must! But you must allow them to identify themselves beyond the color of their coats!"

OOOOOOOOOO

 **Edward**

'Tis strange, the things a young boy is taught when his father has seen war.

Father has told me stories of his time in the French and Indian conflict, back when I was a babe, and Mother was still alive. In one tale, he assisted a young, Virginian Colonel by the name of George Washington – the very same George Washington who rumor has it has been chosen by the Second Continental Congress to command the newly formed Continental Army.

When Father knew him, however, the Colonel served the British Crown. On this event, Colonel Washington was forced to surrender _Fort Necessity_ , a fort which was built on land dually claimed by the British colony of Pennsylvania and the French. Colonel Washington sent two men to negotiate the surrender. Unfortunately, one of these men, Carlisle Cullen, was captured by an _Algonquin_ fighting on the French side who, more fortunately, merely tied Father to a tree with an elaborate, native knot. What fate awaited Carlisle Cullen can only be guessed. Yet, even more fortunately, a _Lenape_ by the name of William Black happened along and took pity on the young man tied to a tree. In later years, William Black and Father became great friends, who shared all sorts of knowledge with one another.

And so, as Major Swan sits behind his mighty oak desk in the drawing room of his commandeered house, I am seated as well; although, I am a few yards away, and my hands are tied 'round the back of the chair. Two of the major's redcoats stand sentry at the door, while two others flank either side of him. Emmett, though not bound to a chair as I, is also seated at the opposite side of the room and is the lucky befriender of another redcoat at his side.

All in all, the odds are in our favor, for William Black taught Father much.

James Pitman is also present. He stands – untied – before the Major's desk, his hands stiffly at his sides and his chin up, waiting as we all wait for the Major to complete signature and perusal of documents. 'Tis all a display of his power, I am aware – a reminder of who is in command.

As he hands over document after document to the man on his right, his secretary likely, I focus my gaze on the oil painting above his desk. 'Tis of a beautiful, young woman dressed in the fashionable clothing of almost a score earlier – Major Swan's wife in her youth… _my_ wife's mother. The likeness is so similar save for the woman's blond curls, my heart is in a perpetual coil of agony, especially since the woman holds a small child…a girl child on her lap. The young child has a cherub's features and eyes heartbreakingly familiar and captivating, even in the painting.

For a few moments, my efforts with the knot still, and I find myself forgetting where I am…wondering what a child of Isabella's and I would have looked like.

"This is the last of it," the Major says to his secretary, breaking me out of my musings. He hands the last of his documents over, and the redcoat walks to the door. Finally, Major Swan deigns us with his attention.

"Very well. We shall begin."

"Major Swan-" James says.

"Captain Pitman, let me rephrase: _I_ shall begin, and you shall wait until I have a question for you."

I chuckle heartily as I watch James' shoulders sag. When Swan directs his gaze to me, I quell my laughter, yet the wry grin remains on my face. I know not what awaits me. Yet, if I am to hang, I shall do all I can beforehand to find a way to free my men. I know what I _can_ do, but as Swan glares at me, he knows not my hands are working behind my back, and he knows not Emmett and I decided long ago: we would fight to the very end.

My only regret…my only regret is the child in the painting above the Major…the child who grew into a beautiful, strong, and courageous woman: who grew to be my cherished wife.

Yet, I must push her out of my mind now; at least, until I free myself and do what must be done.

"Since you find the situation so humorous, Mr. Cullen, I shall begin with you."

I nod once. "Proceed."

He ignores my sarcasm. "During a search of every home and building in this town, your tavern was found to contain illegal and smuggled spirits. What say you of this?"

I shrug my shoulders. "What is there to say of that, Major?"

"There is nothing, but I would give you the opportunity to speak on it, Mr. Cullen," he replies. "Though, I am glad to see you do not attempt to lie your way out of it."

I make no reply.

"Now, as you have not attempted a lie, yet you have no legal excuse for bartering in smuggled goods…" he sighs, "I have had no other option but to seize your tavern in the name of the King and collect your deed for the Crown."

'Twas my father's tavern and his father's before him, and yielding it to the Crown is the worst fate for the tavern I can imagine. 'Tis as if fire licks at the soles of my feet, setting my entire body aflame. Yet, other than for an irrepressible flare of my nostrils, I do not outwardly react. For my wife's sake; for the possibility I may return to her still – and because I am working at the knot.

"A fair punishment, Major Swan," James says, "and one you and I discussed beforehand, did we not?"

Though his back is to me, and I cannot see his face, I hear the smug triumph in his voice.

Before I may something I may or may not regret, Emmett hisses in a furious whisper. "Do not speak, Edward!"

In the next moment, Major Swan turns his attention to James. "Captain Pitman, we discussed in general terms those properties which were found to be in violation; aye, we did," he confirms with a nod, threading his hands together atop his desk calmly. However, he speaks his next words through his teeth. "But at no moment did I condone you and your Royal Regiment plundering the tavern and behaving in manners unbefitting men in service to the Crown."

James is silent.

"As a result, Captain, you and your regiment now owe a total of…" the Major looks down and searches his desk.

"Sixty-six pounds, three shillings, and one pence," I provide.

When Major Swan looks at me again, he no longer appears as calm. Setting his attention back to his desk, he locates the parchment he seeks.

"Sixty-six pounds, three shillings, and one pence," he says.

"Major Swan, with all due respect, sir, I am heartily sorry for any behavior my men and I displayed which may have embarrassed the Crown. But you cannot possibly mean for me to recompense a smuggler for his smuggled spirits!"

"Of course not, Captain," the Major says, calm once again. "Mr. Cullen obtained his shipment illegally, and therefore, he deserves no recompense. You and only you shall recompense _the Crown_ , Captain Pitman, for an officer bears responsibility for that done under his command."

Only my continued efforts with the knot keep me occupied enough to resist laughter once again. I do not want to hang; nay. I do not want to leave my sweet wife widow, to break her heart so grievously for I know she shall never love another as I will never love another.

Yet, at the very least, if I do hang, I shall go with the knowledge that my hanging cost James sixty-six pounds, three shillings, and one pence.

"Now, let us move on from that subject, for the decision is made. Lieutenant Felix, please note my findings on the tavern and its debts in the ledger," he says to the redcoat to his left. "Let us proceed to the disturbance between Mr. Cullen and Captain Pitman."

"A hangable offense, Major," James says.

Major Swan inhales and releases a long breath. "Captain Pitman, once again, you forget yourself. Here, I direct the interview, sir, not yourself."

There is a notable pause before James replies with obvious irritation. "Yes, sir."

"Lieutenant Marcus."

"Yes, sir!" replies the redcoat who stands next to Emmett.

"As you were present throughout the entire exchange, I ask you, sir, to recite to me, moment by moment, what transpired."

"Yes, sir!"

Surprisingly, the lieutenant proceeds to provide an accurate description of the events.

"Captain Pitman," the Major says when the lieutenant has completed his recital, "is that the way you remember it?"

"Yes, sir," James hisses, "that was the way of it. I did and said _nothing_ to warrant Edward's attack, yet attack me he did."

"You spoke her name, you vile worm – _that_ is what you did!" I shout.

"Mr. Cullen!" Major Swan gets to his feet. "There shall be no shouting in here other than by me!" he bellows. "And _you_ ," he seethes, pointing a furious finger at me, "you shall show respect for these primary proceedings, for they shall determine whether you face an English court!"

"Edward, desist," Emmett whispers very quietly.

Swallowing thickly, picturing my wife by our windows, I clench together my jaw.

"Major Swan, may I be allowed to speak, sir?" Emmett says.

As Major Swan turns his gaze to Emmett, the knot behind me comes undone. He gives him a nod.

Emmett clears his throat. "Major Swan," he begins respectfully, "striking an officer of the Crown is a hangable offense, aye. But I would argue that while the disagreement between James…" again he clears his throat, and when he speaks the next two words, 'tis with obvious effort, "I mean, the argument between _Captain Pitman_ and Edward was heated, at no point did Edward strike the captain."

"That is a lie!" James cries out.

"Captain Pitman!" Major Swan chastises. When James falls silent, the Major returns his attention to Emmett.

"Pray continue, Mr. McCarty."

"The lieutenant himself noted that 'twas the Captain whom first laid hands on Edward, and Edward shook it off. Aye, he then proceeded to hold a knife to James' throat, but he did not _strike_ him."

"He cut me," James hisses almost as a snake would hiss. "His very intention was to kill me. That constitutes striking me."

"Aye, he cut him – a slight cut, but he did not strike him. _Captain_ ," Emmett verily spits, "let us be honest in this room if a man's very life be in danger. Had Mr. Cullen intended to kill you, dead you would be. Obviously, murder was not his intent. Neither was his intent to beat you bloody, for he could have done that as well."

"We cannot speak to intentions here; we can only speak to facts," the Major says. "So, I ask you, Mr. Cullen, why did you push the knife's tip deeper?"

"Because he spoke badly of my wife," I growl, "OF YOUR DAUGHTER!" I jerk my chin angrily to the painting above him.

The flare of the Major's nostrils is almost imperceptible. I only note it because 'tis similar to the way his daughter's nostrils barely flare when she attempts to appear calm though I know within she is full of fire.

Nevertheless, when he turns his attention to Lieutenant Marcus, he appears fully composed once more.

"Lieutenant Marcus, is this true? Did you observe Captain Pitman speak badly of…of Mr. Cullen's wife?"

"No, sir. He spoke her name, aye, but he did not speak badly of her."

"He intended to disparage her until he felt the tip of my knife at his throat," I sneer.

"Once again, we cannot speak of intentions, only of facts. And Lieutenant Marcus, did you observe, at any point, Mr. Cullen physically strike Captain Pitman?"

There is a long pause before the Lieutenant replies. "No, sir. I would not say he _struck_ him."

Major Swan falls silent. He sits again. He steeples his hands. Minutes pass. He rubs his jaw hard with his palm. He rakes a hand through his hair.

All the while, my hands are loose behind me. Besides Emmett and me, there are six men in this large, well-appointed drawing room – six armed men. We might likely fell at least four of them before one of their pistols or swords end us. Yet…what right do I have to take Emmett away from Rosalie?

And Major Swan. My wife would grieve not only a husband but a father. I would leave her alone. I would take everything from her.

"Lieutenant Felix, are you ready to record my decision?" he asks.

The lieutenant puts quill to parchment. "Yes, sir!"

OOOOOOOOOO

 **Isabella**

"Ready your weapons!" Seth instructs.

"NO!" I shout. My poor mare is startled into a sideways trot, and I must pull hard to steady her. "Allow them to identify themselves!"

In the darkness, I see the whites of Seth's eyes as they widen. "Mistress Cullen, we must defend the land!"

"Yes, we must! But you must allow them to identify themselves beyond the color of their coats!"

Seth holds my gaze indecisively. "Mistress…if they be redcoats-"

"IDENTIFY YOURSELVES OR WE WILL FIRE!" I shout this at the darkness and at the top of my lungs, so loudly and with so much vigor my throat burns in agony.

Hope throws her head up to the moon and trumpets in horrible fright. Her shivers run through my frame. Yet, she remains still.

"Isabella?"

My heart stops and restarts in the space of five seconds, for thankfully we all recognize his voice. When I hear the sound of muskets being lowered, I sob like a child. Within seconds, the riders' horses make the ground rumble, and then…he appears.

Vaguely I note he is surrounded by Emmett, by Jacob and Jasper, and by the men Seth into town. They must have all met somewhere; I know not. I know nothing until my husband dismounts his horse and breaks into a run toward me. He pulls me down so swiftly my brain rattles, yet I care not. I care about nothing other than the fact that his strong, warm arms encircle me. He holds me so tightly 'tis almost suffocating. His fingers rake my hair as I bury my face in his damp neck and force the tears to subside before I look up at him.

He cradles my face in his hands.

"Hell and damnation," he chokes, "what in the world are you doing out here, Isabella?"

"I was coming for you," I say honestly, whisper raggedly in truth, for I have lost my voice.

He shakes his head in disapproval. "Hellion."

"They would have fired at you and the rest had you not spoken."

Edward chuckles shakily before his lips form a smirk. "I suppose I was not meant to be shot today." For an immeasurable moment, we stand under the light of the month's second full moon, simply holding one another's gaze. I scarcely pay mind to what goes on around us, muffled voices communicating, Rosalie and Emmett holding their own reunion.

"Your father is well. He sends his regards."

I merely nod, and all the while he looks at me as if he cannot decide whether to be proud or upset at me.

"Isabella Cullen, you should have remained indoors, but I you are too strong and brave to do so." He takes my hand, for as much as he believes me brave and strong, I cannot speak, and 'tis not only because my throat burns from the force of my bellowing. 'Tis because…because until these colonies' fate is decided, one way or another, my fate…our fate…perhaps even our children's fate shall be unsure as well.

"Come, my love. 'Tis late. Let us go inside, for I need to lie beside you, and then…there is much to be done in this conflict."

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

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 **I'll try to update again later this week. We shall see. :)**


	23. Chapter 21 The First Incident in Trenton

**A/N: Thank you all so much for all your wonderful thoughts. They are truly appreciated.**

 **Happy (Belated) Friendversary, Maplestyle! ;)**

 **This is one long-ass chapter.**

 **Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to either me or to history.**

 **Chapter 21 - The First Incident in Trenton**

* * *

Many things plague my mind as of late.

'Tis an early dawn, a week after the events in town. The cock has not yet crowed, and the morning creatures just begin to wake and deliver their daylight calls.

Despite the hour, I am not in bed with my wife. Instead, I stand among the creatures, dressed in only breeches and shirt, along with Seth. We slowly drink our coffee, which ever-ready Mrs. Clearwater prepared. The skies above Cullen Hill and the terrain 'round us remain smoky and dappled in heather; for it was a dark and wet night. Far in the horizon, however, hints of salmon-hued bands appear. They shall gradually grow and spread outward like the fingers of the Almighty, and eventually, they shall reach our hill.

Before this dawn breaks, the morning silence is broken by two riders, who emerge from the cover of lingering fog just a handful of seconds after their horses' hooves are heard pounding the ground. Unlike my brave and incautious wife, a week earlier, we call out no warning for we have been awaiting them.

Jasper and Jacob make their way up the hill, their horses slowing from gallops to trots. They dismount before they reach us and lead their stallions by their reins.

"Were you seen?" I ask.

"No," Jasper replies. "As we planned, the clouded night provided sufficient shade so that we rode in and out of town undetected."

"A good thing," I nod, "else, you would have been _requested_ to swear an oath of allegiance…or banished from town until you do so. How are the men?"

"They have been moved to the prison to await transport," Jasper says. "Not one has agreed to swear the oath."

"'Tis decided then?" Seth inquires.

"Unless they swear their loyalty to the Crown within the next seventy-two hours, they shall be bound for a prison ship in New York Harbor," Jacob replies.

I shut my eyes and exhale deeply through my nostrils. "Damn Major Swan to hell," I hiss under my breath.

Though, when I reopen my eyes, I believe I may have hissed the words louder than I meant. Jasper looks at me with a raised brow.

"The question now is, Edward, what do we do? Between what we have on my land, Duncan's land, and here, there is more than sufficient weaponry to free the men."

As he speaks those words, all our eyes sweep to the barn, where inside, there are indeed sufficient smuggled _goods_ to ensure we all hang twice over. Last week's rum incident and its consequences are laughable compared to what would occur should those supplies be discovered. With martial law declared, every home and building in Monmouth County is now fair game for search.

And compared to what will occur if I show my face in town again without swearing an oath – as per the Major's orders – the loss of the tavern would be the least of my punishments.

Strange, how none of the decisions I must now make would have taken more than a moment just a few months earlier.

"Has there been any word from Colonel Arnold?" Jacob asks.

"None yet to me," I say, "and I know none to Emmett."

"Nor to me," Jasper adds, "but 'tis your advice he would seek before acting."

The cock crows from somewhere, and as I speak, my gaze remains on the barn. "My father sent an express rider from Trenton last night with a message. He wishes for me to ride to Trenton this morning. I shall seek his advice and…and return tonight with a decision."

For a long moment, Jasper scrutinizes me. I, however, need not conduct close scrutiny to know he is disappointed, for 'tis clear in his countenance.

He sighs. "Very well, Edward. But do not forget we have less than seventy-two hours to act, if freeing the men be our aim."

With a stiff nod, I turn my attention to Seth. "Seth, please have Leah inform my wife and me when Emmett and Rosalie arrive to break the fast."

Seth nods, and despite all our misery due to the topic at hand, he smiles of a sudden. "'Tis surprising the mistress is not already in the stables tending to her mare, for 'tis her usual way even before Mrs. McCarty's morning arrival."

I make no reply to that remark. "Prepare Aro for the long trip and my wife's horse for a shorter trek. I shall ride with her around the hill after the fast breaking and leave for Trenton directly afterward." With those final instructions, I turn back toward the house.

When I am a few yards from the house, Jasper calls out to me. With a wary breath, I turn toward him and wait.

"I only wanted to inquire, Edward…" he hesitates, "is all well?"

I emit a humorless chuckle. "Mean you other than for the fact that the men under my command in the Freehold Militia are now prisoners of Major Swan – my dear father-in-law," I grin wryly, "who means to send them to a prison ship if they do not swear loyalty to a Crown they despise? Or mean you other than my having lost my grandfather's tavern, our brotherhood's meeting place, to this same Major? Or other than for the fact that we have enough concealed armaments to either begin a true uprising in earnest or to hang before we may fire one volley? Or other than my regret at not having dug my knife's blade all the way into James' throat when I had the opportunity, for the bitterness between us before is nothing to the pure hatred between us now?

Jasper holds my gaze. "Aye. Other than all those, is all well?"

I chuckle heartily now, as does Jasper. For a few moments, as we stand under the slowly rising sun, we share a moment of mutual respite from all which concerns us as of late. With a shake of my head and a commiserative sort of clap to Jasper's shoulder, I make to turn once more.

"I shall retrieve my wife, then meet you in the dining hall for the fast breaking."

"Edward, how much of this business with the weaponry and its need for transport does Isabella know?"

The moment of mutual respite is clearly over. My nostrils flare as I turn back toward Jasper.

"Before you make incorrect assumptions," he says hastily, "'tis not a question because I do not trust her. I am simply curious." He shrugs.

"Curious?" I smirk, crossing my arms over my chest to keep from pummeling him.

"Aye, curious."

With another deep yet much more conspicuous breath, I reply, my gaze focused on the fields ahead, for I am still struggling not to beat him. Yet…I find myself replying with more openness than planned.

"I have not brought myself to tell her yet, and do not _you_ make incorrect assumptions," I hiss. "'Tis not because I do not trust my own wife. There are simply…other issues which currently take precedence."

"I shall not question you further on what takes precedence for obviously, they be issues between man and wife. But I do ask, Edward, that you believe me when I say 'twas not a question in reference to trust."

His tone is sincere enough so that I risk a look at him, and aye, there is sincerity in his look as well.

"Edward, I shall admit to you I had…lingering reservations." He lifts a palm between us. "Not fears that she would betray us," he clarifies. "'Twas more concerns of how her own split loyalties might affect _you_. Yet, split loyalties or not, after what Isabella did, what she was prepared to do the other night for you, what she was prepared to do when she found out that her father is holding our brothers prisoners-"

"I shall not allow it, Jasper," I say in warning, "so if this is your aim in this talk-"

"'Tis not my aim for I know you shall not allow her into town," he says swiftly, "and I know that regardless of her good intentions, 'twould do no good. As men, you and I know her father will not free the men due to a woman's pleading, daughter or other."

"No, he will not, and in either case, I shall _not_ set my wife in the middle of this conflict."

"Again, I know you shall not, yet I would have you know I have much respect for your wife."

'Tis his manner of apology for all which occurred and was said between us on Lake Champlain, and he is brother enough to me where I shall accept it for what it is.

"I am glad to hear it," I reply honestly.

He nods. "Edward, we shall perhaps no longer always agree, as we once did, in our methods toward this struggle. For as we have just said, you now have concerns beyond those which I, as an unmarried man, can comprehend. But I would also have you know that…I am ready to lend an ear should you have the need."

"I thank you," I say quietly. Yet, that is all I say.

He nods once again. "And at the risk of raising your ire once more, may I suggest you simply tell Isabella of our concealed shipment? You shall have to tell her soon anyhow, and better sooner rather than as we ride with it for Massachusetts."

With another humorless chuckle, I nod. "You are correct, and your good advice shall be received in the same good spirit with which it was given."

Jasper grins widely. "Your wife appears a woman with few fears, Edward."

"She has fears, Jasper; she simply does not allow them to rule her." With a deep breath, my gaze shifts of its own accord up to our chamber windows, where the curtains billow in the morning breeze, and I know she has awoken. "The question is whether that be a good thing…or a bad one?"

I do not elaborate, and neither does Jasper attempt a reply.

OOOOOOOOOO

When I enter our chambers, my wife is reading a letter while seated at the small, ivory vanity I retrieved for her from the attic a few days earlier. 'Twas once my mother's vanity. I have vague recollections of being in her chambers and watching her brush out her long, copper hair while seated at it. When she passed, there was no more need for a vanity in the house, and so it was stored. 'Tis in good condition, though likely much smaller than what Isabella is accustomed to. Nevertheless, when I presented her with the vanity so that she would have a proper place where to sit and perform her daily, womanly preparations, tears of gratitude streaked my wife's lovely face. One would have thought I'd gifted her the world.

At the moment, Isabella is the very definition of femininity, seated at the vanity with her hair still loose and flowing about her shoulders, and her gauzy nightgown transparent enough so that the sunlight silhouettes the soft mounds and curves underneath. For a few seconds, I simply stand there and gaze at her loveliness. Her body is mine every evening, yet the sight of it…the sight of _her_ still leaves me breathless.

That is, until my wife senses my presence and looks up, and I see that my usually tearless wife is, yet again, crying – sobbing actually.

In an instant, I am at her side. I drop to my knees before her and grip her waist, then her arms, and finally, I cradle her face in my hands.

"Isabella, my love, what is it?"

In her current state, it takes her more than a few seconds to compose herself enough to speak.

"I received a reply from Alice to the letter I wrote her." She gives the missive in her hand a slight shake.

"Isabella." I sigh sympathetically, wiping her tears with my thumbs. "My love, I warned you not to expect too much."

"I know," she replies brokenly, "and I honestly attempted not to, yet I suppose I did, and…'tis bad news all around Edward," she chokes. "Alice married a fortnight ago. She is now Mrs. John Andre.

"Oh, my love. I am heartily sorry for your friend."

"As am I, yet I expected this possibility; I truly did. The possibility she would have been allowed to visit, the possibility her father would have been swayed, even had my father agreed to speak with him, these were all slim possibilities." Her beautiful features, tinged with sadness, suddenly harden. "Something had to be done to show the world Mary Alice Brandon and her family were neither patriots nor traitors to the Crown, and what better way than marrying her off to an officer in his Majesty's service?" The bitterness in her voice as she refers to her King is somewhat jarring. "But Edward…" she says more softly, her eyes again filling with tears, "the news is worse – much worse."

Again, she requires a few moments in which to compose herself. When she holds my gaze through eyes compounded with despondency, the sense of dread I have felt these past few days multiplies.

"'Tis of Mrs. Gage."

"The Massachusetts Military Governor's wife? What of her?"

"I shall read you the pertinent sections." She releases a succession of uneven sighs before she begins reading:

" _Isabella, I have more news, and it is unrelated to that which I have already relayed to you of my fortunate nuptials and my stimulating wedding night with dear, darling, and manly John."_

Here, Isabella pauses and sets down the missive. "Before I continue, I should explain that Alice's writing tends to be punctuated by a certain amount of satire. Knowing her as I do, I know when she is mocking, for I know her true beliefs – beliefs which, I fully admit once horrified me. Her manner of writing, I believe, is both due to her fury at her current circumstances as much as to conceal those true beliefs, for if her loyalties are still questioned-"

"-'tis possible her mail is monitored," I finish for my wife. "Damnation."

Isabella nods miserably. "Though I cannot decide what she attempts more: concealment or mockery."

"Continue, Isabella."

With a sigh, my wife returns to the letter.

" _You are, of course, familiar with the illustrious General Gage, who governs Massachusetts under martial law these last months. He and his wife, Mrs. Margaret Gage, dined at your father's table on more than one occasion when you lived here in New York Colony, and the General would visit."_

"Aye, we have spoken of the times Mrs. Gage visited you and showed you kindness."

"She was very kind to me, yes – almost maternal." My wife looks away wistfully for a moment before resuming her letter.

" _Isabella, it appears that after the horrific loss by our Regulars to patriot rebels in the villages of Lexington and Concord, the unfortunate General Gage was taken to task by his superiors. For, 'tis a mystery how the rebels learned that the Regulars were to march on these villages in search of Misters Samuel Adams and John Hancock, those infamous founders of the notorious Sons of Liberty as well as in search of a rumored stockpile of armaments!"_

Here, I interrupt again with a sudden and urgent query. "Isabella, have you told Alice-"

"I have never mentioned anything to her of your patriotism nor your involvement with the Sons of Liberty. And 'tis not because I do not trust her, nor because I am ashamed of you, but rather because I would never, _ever_ commit such a thing to pen and paper."

I breathe out a visible sigh of relief.

She purses her lips. "You may believe me incautious; however, I am not stupid. But Edward, Alice and I have been friends since we were babes. In between her words, I read she knows much, and I read that since I left New York, her own involvement with the patriot Cause has grown exponentially. Can you imagine, therefore, how miserable this marriage shall make her?"

I silently hold my wife's gaze, for she was once forced into a union which had the potential to make her miserable.

"Continue, my love," I say simply.

" _They say the poor General was rebuked by Parliament in the harshest of terms. After which, his Majesty the King, who watches for all our best interests, sent yet more reinforcements from London into Boston along with three more generals: Major General William Howe and Generals_ _John Burgoyne and_ _Henry Clinton, to ensure Boston never falls to the rebel forces."_

This time, when my wife sets down the letter, 'tis as if she cannot bear to read more. She pinches her eyes shut so tightly tears squeeze out from the corners.

"Did you know of this?" Her voice is a barely audible whisper.

"Aye," I reply just as quietly. "Aye, I knew. Boston is overrun with Redcoats. Without patriot reinforcements or armaments…soon, Massachusetts shall fall, and the uprising shall be quelled."

Slowly, she reopens her dark eyes, her gaze instantly finding mine. For a few, long moments, she says nothing, but she is perceptive; I know she reads as much between my words as she does between Alice's. Nevertheless, she returns to her letter without comment.

" _In this vein, Isabella, of ensuring our colonial loyalties remain where they should, a fortnight ago, General Gage issued a proclamation granting pardon to all in Massachusetts who would demonstrate loyalty to the crown by swearing an…"_ Isabella swallows – " _by swearing an oath of allegiance to our King. Since you and I and all whom we know are loyal to King George – God save Him – and since we live not in Massachusetts, we, at least, have nothing with which to concern ourselves."_

Isabella falls silent and drops her red-rimmed gaze to the floor between us. For a long while, neither one of us speaks; though I know our thoughts mirror each other.

"Edward," she whispers, still unable to look at me, "you once told me, as we sat in the orchards, _'what vengeance begins in Boston spreads throughout the colonies.'_ I did not…I did not truly believe you at the time," she confesses. "I thought you were in exaggeration, and I thought surely 'twould all right itself on its own before things grew out of hand."

"Isabella…"

"It appears you were correct. Martial Law and the Oaths of Allegiance are here in our own back yard…and issued by my own father, and I must apologize for doubting you."

I wrap my hands around her face and force her eyes to mine.

The guilt etched in her lovely features both infuriates me and breaks my heart. For she is being forced, in the harshest of manners, to face truths which must be faced, truths which I cannot deny her, yet truths which I would have spared her if possible, if only to never see such pain in her eyes.

Yet, there is nothing I can do for I cannot change the truth.

"Isabella, _never_ apologize to me," I say, for there is nothing more I can say.

She snorts. "'Tis not even the worst of it, Edward; at least, not for me. And perhaps this shall demonstrate to you my level of selfishness."

"Of what do you speak, my love?"

She disentangles herself from me, and once more, she picks up the damnable missive, which I am of a mind to snatch and consign to Mrs. Clearwater's lit hearth for all the heartache 'tis causing her.

" _And so, Isabella, with all these occurrences, I reach the bit of news which shall perhaps mean more to you than does all the rest, for I recall how Mrs. Gage reminded you of your mother, God rest her soul. Again, I know not if you know this, but about the time the Oaths of Allegiance were requested in Massachusetts, a battle occurred along one of the hills surrounding Boston. Our Regulars won this battle, Isabella, but it was a dear-bought victory, for they say we suffered more than one thousand casualties. In this battle, the patriot rebels lost one of their greatest leaders and a founder of The Sons of Liberty-"_

"Joseph Warren," I breathe.

Isabella nods slowly, keeping her eyes on her letter. "Aye, Doctor Joseph Warren," she repeats.

" _You may have never heard of him, Isabella, but believe me when I say the Patriots shall feel his loss most grievously. But someone else who may have felt his loss is Mrs. Gage herself – for he was her physician, and 'tis not an easy thing to find a good physician these days."_

Joseph Warren was more than Margaret Gage's physician – he was her lover, and she was the source through which Joseph learned of her husband's plan to march on Lexington and Concorde. Isabella knows all this, for her untimely, secretive visit to our tavern and her subsequent overhearing this information is the reason she and I are married.

What is more, I am learning to read between Alice's satirical voice as well. At the very least, Alice knows of Mrs. Gage's true loyalties…and her true love. The question is, _how_ does this young woman know all this?

" _Isabella, it falls to me to inform you that two days ago, Mrs. Gage set sail for England from New York Harbor – though she be New Jersey born and bred. Nevertheless, her husband's estate is in England, and it seems to find itself suddenly in need of a mistress. The evening before, she appeared at my doorstep – at my husband's doorstep, with neither warning nor preamble. And as she bade me a hasty farewell, she bid me give you this message:_

' _Please tell Isabella how dear she has been to me, and please…please ask her to remain as inquisitive, as perceptive, as strong-willed, and as brave as I have known her to be, for 'tis the sort of woman these times…these colonies shall need.'"_

With tears streaming down her cheeks, my wife releases the letter. In my periphery, I watch as it floats to the wooden floorboards and disappears in between.

"General Gage discovered it was his wife who warned us of his plans." I say this with a conviction as if Alice wrote the words plainly and inscribed them in stone.

"Aye," Isabella nods, her voice a strange monotone. "Aye, he discovered it, and he banished her to England as if she were nothing more…nothing more than cattle to be led and branded."

When the sobs resume, I pull her off her seat and against my chest, where she buries her face into my neck.

"My love." I stroke the lengths of her hair. "I am so sorry. I know Mrs. Gage meant much to you."

"I had planned…after all this was over, to invite her to Cullen Hill, for I recall her telling me once her paternal family estate was in the town of New Brunswick."

"New Brunswick is not far from us. I would have enjoyed meeting her. She is much respected by our brotherhood."

For a few minutes, she continues crying, but quietly. Then, that ceases as well. When she finally looks up, only dry tears mar her cheeks.

"That is all. I shall not indulge in selfish tears anymore."

"You are not selfish, Isabella, for feeling so deeply."

She shrugs as if she is not sure. "Alice ends her letter with as much satire as always. She bemoans the fact that her husband must leave for Quebec soon to defend some fort or other on the lakes of Champlain." She rolls her eyes. "Either way, it grows late, and 'tis time to get ready for the-"

"What? What was that final part, my love? He must go where and when?"

"Who, John? Oh, Alice says-"

Of a sudden, Isabella's face turns deathly white, an occurrence with which I have become all too familiar these past few mornings. She clamps a hand over her mouth at the same moment that she jumps up and runs to the bed, reaching under it for the thankfully empty basin, where she proceeds to retch with a violence that stops my heart.

"Dear God, Isabella."

I rush to her, yet all I can do is hold back her long, dark hair so that it does not become entangled in the mess. When she is done, she stands almost as quickly as when she begun the business, and she takes the basin to the other side of the room. Setting it down by the chamber doors, Isabella walks to the dresser, where she fills a cup with water from the pitcher and proceeds to rinse her mouth.

And I sit there, with my heart in my throat. On legs which have never felt so weak and useless, I stand and make my way to her, wrapping my arms 'round her from behind. Her nightgown is soft and so thin I easily feel the skin of her warm stomach under my hands.

"Isabella, this is every morning since-"

She spits into the empty bowl next to the pitcher. "I am well, Edward," she says calmly.

"But you cannot possibly-"

With a final rinse, she turns in my arms and looks up at me, smiling as she lightly grips my hips.

"I promise you, I am well. All will be well."

"If you would just allow me to call for-"

"Edward, my love, were you not riding to Trenton this morning to see your father?" Isabella disentangles herself from me and walks to the chair, where she picks up my coat and quickly strides toward me again to assist me into it. "You should get going, for 'tis a long ride, is it not?"

As I push my arms through the sleeves, I frown darkly at her. "Aye, I suppose – but do not think I do not see what you are about, Isabella. We _shall_ speak of this." I exhale a long, nervous breath as I smooth down her hair. "And we shall speak of other things as well."

"It seems we always have so much to speak of," she says. Yet, when she again smiles, 'tis infused with a quiet sort of joy, which simply confounds me all the more.

She smooths down my lapels while patting away nonexistent lint. "Do you believe you shall make it home this eve or will you remain in Trenton for the night?"

"I shall sleep by your side this night, wife."

"Do not ride yourself or Aro too hard."

"I shall sleep by your side this night," I repeat.

"So stubborn. Very well," she says with a grin which soon fades. "Then, at least, do this: forego our morning ride so that you may depart directly after the fast-breaking."

"But-"

"Edward, I do not want you or Aro overtired nor…" she swallows nervously, "nor riding near the town by yourself and late."

"Isabella-"

"And I am not naïve enough to believe we may avoid all danger, for I know you shall have to depart again soon and face only Lord knows what."

All air leaves my lungs. "Isabella…I meant to tell you…"

"And you shall. We shall speak of all when you return. Perhaps tomorrow morn…" her fingers play with the buttons on my coat, and I note that once more, she cannot quite meet my eyes, "we may ride into the orchards?"

 _Dear God in heaven._

I lift her chin and lock her in my gaze. "Isabella Cullen, I love you with all my heart and soul," I say, hoping she cannot hear the quiver in my voice and mistakenly attribute it to my words.

But she grins softly. "I love you with all my heart and soul as well, Edward Cullen."

OOOOOOOOOO

Aro and I begin our trek to Trenton by giving Freehold Town a wide berth – for now. The terrain is at first flat, clear grass land until we reach Upper Freehold, which is about midway to Trenton. Here, the land becomes marsh; tall, thin blades of grass in shallow waters. Small, wooden lodges built by beavers sometimes block our path, and we must take a roundabout route.

The sun is high in the sky, hot upon my back, and seeps through my three-cornered hat so that I must continually remove it to wipe thick beads of sweat off my brow. Aro and I take a quick rest in a quiet field with massive trees which thankfully offer abundant shade. My horse rests and grazes in peace, while I lean against a trunk, eating oatcakes and drinking ale which has been packed if not prepared for me by my wife.

"Spoiled hellion," I chuckle to myself. But the humor quickly fades, and I sigh deeply.

After sufficient rest, we begin our trip again. At about half past one, the brown waters of the narrow Delaware River come into view. Within another quarter of an hour, we are at the Trenton Town Hall, where the Provincial Congress of New Jersey has been in session for a fortnight. They plan New Jersey Colony's response to those events occurring both within our colony and in our sister colonies.

After handing Aro to one of the grooms in the Hall's stables, I make my way to the steps of the meeting hall, somewhat bewildered by the sight of many militia men standing outside, scores of them dressed in white, hunting shirts and the different uniforms of their varied colonies. I tip my hat to those whose gazes I meet as I follow the voices within.

There is a commotion in the large meeting room. All men are on their feet, surrounding one particularly tall gentleman who wears a distinguished wig with many curls. At first, as I make my way further into the room, I am both shocked and infuriated when I catch sight of the gentleman's red uniform. That is until a few of the men closest to him pull back sufficiently so that I see that the gentleman's uniform is not all crimson. Rather, while his waistcoat and the lapels on his coat are red, the outer coat is as blue as is mine. It takes some moments to place the actual design, but one of the men who joined us on Lake Champlain wore such a coat: 'tis an officer's uniform of the Virginia Colonial Militia.

My father is one of the men who stand closest to this gentleman. My eyes locate him at almost the same moment that Father looks up and espies me. Surprise widens his eyes.

"Edward? Edward," he grins. "Come." He waves me over. "Come."

Excusing myself as I make my way through the crowd, I reach my father and the vastly popular gentleman.

Father claps me on the shoulder and shakes my hand. "Edward, son, 'tis good to see you."

"Father, how are you?"

"I am well, I am well," he grins excitedly. Then, he snorts, for aye, we have much to discuss.

I sent him an express after the events in the tavern. He is aware we have lost the tavern, and I have also informed him, in a manner similar to Alice's though even less direct, of our smuggled and concealed shipment. I did not, however, share with him what occurred with James nor with Major Swan afterward.

Nevertheless, he blinks and turns from me to address the gentleman. This close, I see the gentleman is about Father's age, early to mid-forties, and even taller than Father and I, we who be tall men to begin. He has broad shoulders, a large, straight, and pointed nose, thin lips, and an air of composed serenity about him.

"General Washington, may introduce to you my son, Edward Cullen, Captain of the Freehold Militia."

"General Washington," I say in disbelief.

"Captain Cullen, I have heard much about you, sir, from both your father and from a mutual friend of ours – Colonel Benedict Arnold."

The general's voice is somewhat soft and breathy, and he smiles minimally as he reaches out a hand to shake mine.

"General," – I shake the man's hand vigorously – "I am most honored to meet you, sir. I have heard much about you as well – from much the same sources," I grin. "I must give you my thanks, sir, for taking on the duty of commanding our colonies' newly formed army."

"The honor is all mine, I assure you." He chuckles and looks down at our hands, and only then do I note I am still shaking it.

"I apologize," I say, withdrawing my hand and chuckling in return.

He throws back his head and laughs, and as I catch a quick glimpse of his teeth, I see why he displays them as little as possible. They are brown and impossibly crooked. Yet, when he stops laughing and once more holds my eyes, I see he is much more than a composed, serene, gentleman.

"Edward, you have arrived unexpectedly, yet at the best possible time during our provincial congress. The General here was in Philadelphia with the Continental Congress, and he did us the honor of deviating for a few hours just to meet us before departing with his men for Massachusetts."

"Trenton is so close," Washington says in his Virginian drawl and his soft-spoken voice, "that after learning you were here, Carlisle, my old friend, I could not in good conscience depart for Boston without stopping to greet you and the rest of our brotherhood. And again, I assure you, the honor is all mine." He turns to me. "Especially now that I happen upon you, sir, for I hear you are one of the men our Cause must thank for our successes far up north by Quebec."

"General, please call me Edward."

"Edward, then," he almost whispers. His eyes carefully sweep our surroundings before he meets my father's and then my eyes again.

"Carlisle and Edward, since we are so unexpectedly together, may we have a quick word? Then, I promise I shall allow you your father son reunion."

"Of course, sir," I say.

The General strides in his supremely composed manner to an abandoned corner of the room, while Father and I follow. When we are assured privacy, he addresses me first.

"Edward, I would normally never be this presumptuous nor this forward-"

"I have the weapons, sir," I say, knowing to what he refers.

He exhales in obvious relief. "Thank the Lord. Benedict indicated as much, yet we were fearful you would have been discovered."

"Not yet, sir," I say, "but the situation is perilous. Freehold Township is under martial law and all structures and property within and without the town are subject to search. My militia, they attempted an uprising in town while I was away, but they were over overpowered, for the Royal Regiment has grown, and New York sent in more Regulars. My men are now prisoners, and unless they swear an oath of loyalty, they shall be transported to New York in less than three days and held on a prison ship in the harbor indefinitely."

"Damnation," Washington breathes. "I heard Charles declared martial law, but I did not know he held prisoners." He shakes his head. "I know Swan from the French and Indian Conflict. He is a good man. 'Tis a damned shame we now find ourselves on such opposite sides."

He holds my gaze as he speaks, yet I do not know him well enough to guess whether he is aware that the Major's daughter is my wife.

"Edward, did you happen to bring the supplies with you?"

"No, sir. Unfortunately, I had no idea you would be here."

"No, of course you would not, for I could not give any prior warning for obvious reasons." He exhales in quiet yet clearly massive disappointment. "So much needed weaponry so close, and such patriotic men now headed for prison. 'Tis all such a damnable shame and waste."

For one, long moment, the three of us are silent, lost in our own thoughts.

"General," I say, my voice as soft as his, "if I do not ask too much, could you possibly spare Father and I some more of your time? I know you are anxious to reach Massachusetts, and…I have something of great import I must discuss with my Father in private, but could we perhaps meet somewhere within the hour and speak further?"

"I suppose I may delay my departure a bit further without it having much effect on the results. There is a tavern a few blocks from here I am told is sympathetic to our Cause."

"We know it well," my father smiles. "Until recently, we owned a similar tavern in Freehold."

Washington claps my father's shoulder. "Carlisle, I cannot even guarantee you that is anywhere near the biggest sacrifice you shall have to make to our Cause." He sighs almost inaudibly. "I shall meet you both in an hour?"

"Aye, thank you, General."

OOOOOOOOOO

"Father, I apologize for arriving announced and disturbing your important affairs with your fellow congressmen."

Father and I walk and talk freely through the Trenton streets, strolling with our hands knit behind our backs. With its proximity to Philadelphia and further away from the Tory infestation of New York Colony, Trenton is a much more patriotic town than is Freehold – even before Major Swan's declaration of martial law.

"There is no need for apology, Edward," Father says. "Your visit was both welcome and fortuitous in its timing. You have written me of the _smuggled weaponry_ ," – despite the patriotic bend of Trenton, he whispers the last two words – "and you wrote me of the Tavern's possession by the Crown. However, you neglected to write me of the issue which occurred between James and yourself, and what happened with Major Swan."

I turn to him in shock, both our footsteps halting.

"Emmett wrote me."

"Why, that large-mouthed-"

"Hear me: I am glad he did, and I am heartily relieved the Major cares enough for his daughter to have released you, even after he discovered you had untied yourself, and even if you are now banished from town, for he could have easily sentenced you to hanging, Edward, for the love of all." Only here does Father pause for a breath, for he has spoken his entire speech in a heated rush. "What were you thinking to do?"

"I would not have hung without at the very least taking James with me."

"You must think clearer when it comes to James, Edward. He abhors you."

I snort. "No more than I abhor him."

Father holds my gaze. "I shall be honest, Edward. We erred in not killing James earlier. When he called you out the morning after you married Isabella, you should have killed him, for all I sense is trouble from him now, not just toward you, but toward your wife."

"If he ever comes near Isabella-" I seethe.

"The problem is that the enmity between you both is now quite public, and if anything dubious should occur to him, you shall be the first suspect."

"I care not-"

"But you should," Father cuts me off, "for you have a wife now. As I said, Edward, think clearly and carefully in regards to James. Keep an eye on him, but do not foolishly allow yourself impulsiveness around him again."

Shutting my eyes tightly, I draw in a deep breath and release it slowly before nodding.

When I reopen my eyes, Father is scrutinizing me most closely.

"Now, as glad as I am to see you, tell me why you are here, Edward. You did not know General Washington would be in Trenton, and I know James was not the topic you meant to discuss. What else occurs at home?"

I tilt my head upward to the blue skies, swallowing thickly before meeting my father's careful eyes once more.

"Father, I am grievously concerned for my wife."

"For Isabella?" Father's face pales to an ashen shade which matches his wig. If it were not for the topic at hand, I would be touched by his clear affection for my wife.

"Why?" he breathes. "Is she unwell?"

"Aye," I reply with a nod. My voice quivers weakly, for at least with Father, I may show my weakness.

"She is most unwell, yet she is so brave, that I cannot allow her to see how frightened I am."

"Lord above." My father clamps a hand over his mouth, and once he takes a few long and ragged breaths, he drops the hand. "What ails her, son?"

I shake my head. "I do not even know for sure, but every morn since my return from Quebec, she is wretchedly sick. It comes upon her of a sudden, while we are laughing or talking or making…" I clear my throat. "She turns white as the sheets, and then she must run to find the basin so she may empty the contents of her stomach into it. Every morn 'tis thus, Father. 'Tis horrifying to watch, yet once she is done, she rinses her mouth and smiles at me. She smiles at me! As if I had not just watched her be most severely sick." I fist my hair hard. "Then, for the rest of the day, she is usually well, but sometimes even in the evenings, she is sick. I know not what to do."

I hang my head in misery and hold my hat close to my agonized chest. Yet, I cannot deny the sense of relief in finally having shared this burden.

For a long while, my father is silent. Aye, I do feel guilty for adding to his concerns beyond those related to his duties with New Jersey Colony's Provincial Congress. What is more, he is no longer as young as he once was. Therefore, I lift my eyes, for I need to ensure I have not caused the man apoplexy with my selfish need to unburden myself.

He is smirking at me.

"Edward, you rode thirty-five miles on horseback, from Freehold to Trenton, to tell me this?"

"Of course, Father. I knew not with whom else to speak of it."

"Well, I am touched you thought of me. But Edward," he says, "pray tell me what be Isabella's other symptoms?"

I draw in a deep breath through painfully constricted lungs before releasing it in an equally torturous exhale.

"Well, she turns a worrisome shade of green at table when she is presented with dishes I once watched her enjoy most openly. And…she has sobbed twice since my return, Father. Twice. Isabella does not sob."

He lifts an eyebrow. "Aye, a sobber Isabella surely is not. Tell me, son, have you questioned her on this… _ailment_?"

"Aye, of course I have, Father," I repeat tempestuously, "I am no simpleton!" Frustrated, I ram a fist into my tricorn. "All she says is that all will be well in time. And the stubborn hellion refuses to allow me to call for a physician, for she says Rosalie has already provided her all the medical advice she needs. I am at wit's end." I begin pulling my hair out in clumps. "If something should happen to my wife, I…" Shutting my eyes, I scrub a hand down my face. "Father, all else would be meaningless without her; freeing the men, arming Massachusetts, reclaiming the tavern, protecting our land…the entire uprising. Meaningless. You would have to take over, for I would be useless forever."

For a few moments, my eyes remain shut, for behind my lids, I see every moment Isabella and I have spent together in this short yet wonderful union of ours. 'Tis not enough. I cannot bear to think 'tis all the time we shall have together.

When I again reopen my eyes and meet Father's gaze, I am bewildered by the soft smile on his face, which is accompanied by a twinkle in his blue eyes.

"Edward," he chuckles, "if your wife says all will be well in time…then all will be well in time."

"But what if something occurred to her in my absence?"

"I am quite sure it did not occur in your absence."

When he shrugs, I am shocked and offended by his indifference.

He chuckles with increased humor and claps my shoulder. "Come, let us meet with the General, for I know what you plan, son, and I agree with it. But then, Edward, ride home and speak with your wife. Once you tell her of your concerns, I suspect she shall be able to set your mind at ease – at least, in this concern."

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **I know! I know what scene** _ **some**_ **of you are waiting for, but I couldn't in good conscience include it here! Look at how long this chapter is already!**

 **I would PROMISE it'll be right at the beginning of the next chapter, but I get the feeling my word might mean shit just about now. ;)**

 **Did Major John Andre ever wed a Mary Alice Brandon? Probably not. ;)**

 **Though, everything in Alice's letter regarding General Gage, the additional reinforcements to Boston, the additional Generals' arrivals, and the oaths of allegiance in Massachusetts are true. Whether Margaret Gage and Joseph Warren were lovers has never been proven, nor has it ever been determined for sure whether Margaret betrayed her husband by informing the patriots of his plans for Lexington and Concord - though the General did send his New Jersey born wife to England after the disastrous events (disastrous for England) in Boston.**

 **Also, a few readers have wondered what crawled up Jasper's ass, lol. If you think about it though, here was a young man whose ONLY concern was freedom to build a nation. The way he thinks and acts is pretty much the way Edward would be thinking and acting IF he hadn't fallen in love.**

 **And, in RL, did George Washington deviate to Trenton, NJ, before heading for Boston to kick some redcoat butt? Probably not. Likely not.**

 **Yes, he did. In early July 1775, he passed through Trenton and New Brunswick, NJ en route to Boston to take command of the military fighting there.**

 **And yes, in RL, GW was extremely soft spoken. As a child, his suffered from Pleurisy – a viral infection which inflamed the lining of his lungs and left him with a high, weak, and breathy voice. He also had very bad teeth – even worse than what was expected in that day and age, which caused him to develop a habit of opening his mouth only slightly whenever he spoke.**

 **There's your history lesson. ;)**

" **See" you all soon!**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**


	24. Ch The Incident Under the Apple Tree

**A/N: Thank you all for your wonderful thoughts.**

 **Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to either history or to me.**

* * *

 **Chapter 22 – The Incident under the Apple Tree.**

"Ah, 'tis a beautiful day, is it not, Edward?"

Isabella sighs and leans back, tilting her face upward to the morning sun as she supports herself on her palms over the orchard's dewy grass. Around her, the field is in full bloom – an eruption of flora abounds from branches which will soon give way to fruit. Morning birds chirp from within the trees, flitting from twig to twig as they carry nourishment back to their young. Behind us, Aro and Hope grunt and whinny comfortably, for they are tied and shaded from the morning heat by an apple tree, as are we.

I do not immediately reply to my wife. Instead, I watch the golden rays force their way through the branches so that they may kiss Isabella's face; luminescent particles fall upon her eyes, nose, and lips like glistening raindrops. Despite my misery, I am unable to resist, and I follow their lead, leaning into Isabella and brushing my lips against each shuttered eye, then against her nose, and finally…'cross her sweet lips. For one moment, I shut my eyes as well and offer a quick prayer.

When I pull away, her eyes are open and her dark gaze is on me. She wears the smile of an impish angel.

"Isabella-"

"Father would tell me 'tis not ladylike to hold my face upward even in the shade, for I shall develop even more freckles."

"I am not your father, and I happen to adore your freckles."

She grins somewhat nervously, yet instead of turning her face upward once more, her eyes sweep over the land. The grin which spreads is as if she is observing every apple tree, every blade of wheat, every bush, and every corn stalk for the first time.

"Isabella-"

"You arrived quite late last evening; or rather, early this morning."

"Aye, 'twas quite early," I confess. "A hint of dawn was upon the horizon."

"I did not even feel you beside me until the cock crowed."

"You sleep deeply as of late."

My mind fills with Isabella as she appeared in the early hours of the morn when I arrived at our chamber doors: curled on the white sheets with her nightgown pushed far above her thighs and her dark hair splayed 'cross her pillow. Aye, I desired her instantly, yet she slept so soundly I had not the heart to wake her, most especially knowing how unwell she be early in the mornings.

So instead, I silently removed my clothing, and as I lay beside my wife, I slid my arms under her nightgown and around her slim waist, pulling her back against my chest while instinct molded her body to mine. A series of successive sighs escaped her, and still fast asleep, she raised her hands to cover mine atop her warm stomach. And as I brushed my lips back and forth against the nape of her neck, she exhaled my name on a long, whispered breath.

" _Edward."_

" _I am here, my love."_

Thus perfectly arranged, I shut my eyes and rested peacefully with her until the cock crowed a short while later…and her damnable sickness woke her.

"I meant to depart Trenton earlier, but I met with someone whom I did not expect to see, and then we had much business to discuss."

"Ahh," she says with a languid nod, "delayed by your plotting and planning."

Her old refrain makes me chuckle despite myself as I pull up the blades of grass between us. "In truth…in truth, 'twas General George Washington with whom I met."

"General George Washington?"

"Aye." My eyes meet hers. "He is the General who shall lead the Patriot army in this conflict."

Her expression as she holds my gaze is inscrutable.

"Would you like to know more, Isabella?"

She does not reply straight away, and when she does, what she says is not at all what I expect.

"Edward, tell me how this came to be Cullen land."

"Damnation. Isabella," – my jaw clenches in frustration as I launch a handful of grass blades back down to the dirt – "I can no longer bear this. We must speak."

"I know," she replies calmly. "I know we have much to speak of, but I pray you, indulge me, Edward. Whoever General Washington be or not be, I know he involves you leaving me again soon."

I swallow thickly.

"Please tell me how all this loveliness came to be Cullen land."

Tilting my head upward to the blue skies, I breathe in deeply and exhale the breath through narrowed lips. Then, I meet my wife's gaze.

"Very well. And then you shall tell me what ails you."

"What ails me?" She tilts her head slightly, a frown marring her smooth forehead before her dark eyes suddenly grow wide. A quiet gasp escapes her.

"Edward…" she says softly, smiling as she reaches between us and takes my hand, the one currently destroying the land of which she inquires. She threads together our fingers. "My love; I thought perhaps you had begun to…but it seems you had not. Yes. Yes, then I shall tell you."

I have no notion of what she speaks. Nevertheless, she wishes to know of our land, and I shall grant her this tale before we must speak of much darker subjects.

With a sigh and a squeeze of her warm hand in mine, I begin.

"Isabella, how much know you of New Jersey Colony?"

"I know 'tis much smaller than New York, and I know it has the distinct advantage of being New York Colony's neighbor to the south."

"You call it an advantage," I smirk, "I call it a curse. But let us leave that issue out of this for now."

The imp chuckles. "Very well. Continue."

"Before New Jersey was colonized, a host of tribes inhabited the land, more specifically here in our parts, 'twas the _Lenape_ Delaware Indians."

"I do know that much, husband, for again, New Jersey shares this history with New York. I also know 'twas an English subject, Sir Henry Hudson, whom first landed in the area in 1609, while searching for a Northwest Passage to Asia."

I lift an eyebrow. "You reveal your bias quite openly by excluding an important piece of information from that, my dear, Tory wife."

She rolls her eyes.

"Sir Henry Hudson may have been an Englishman," I say, "yet his exploration of the area was performed on behalf of the _Dutch_ West India Company. This is why both New York and New Jersey were first named _New Netherland_ and were first a Dutch colony."

"And you reveal your bias, Edward, for your mother was Dutch. But very well," she mutters. "I shall concede the point," she says, causing me to laugh despite myself. "Go on."

"Of course, the English could not bear that state of affairs for long, and so in 1664, an English fleet sailed into New York Harbor and did indeed remind the Dutch of Henry Hudson's English heritage. The fact that they then proceeded to point cannons at the colony, compounded by the fact that the Dutch had never bothered to garrison said colony, gave impressive strength to the English claim."

"Yes, yes. And so, we became English colonies, and King Charles the Second gave the land to his brother, the Duke of York, whom further ceded some of the lands to his two good friends, Sir Carteret and Lord Berkeley. The Duke of York's portion became New York Colony, and the two friends named their _much smaller_ portion New Jersey, after the Isle of Jersey. I know all this, Edward," she says impatiently. "Tell me of Freehold and _our land_."

I admit I laugh all the more throughout her indignation. "Impatient hellion. Very well. I shall admit here, Lords Carteret and Berkeley enticed settlers into New Jersey by offering land grants which provided ownership rather than leases, and these at very cheap prices. What is more, by passing _Concession and Agreement_ , Carteret and Berkeley granted religious freedom to all inhabitants of New Jersey. These were freedoms and privileges not available in the rest of the English colonies."

"Ahh. So 'tis from where the township of _Freehold_ received its name. Finally, we get somewhere."

"You are even more brazen than usual this morn," I snort.

She laughs loudly, and the sound of it wraps around my heart. Her cheeks redden and her dark eyes glimmer in the sunlight. She appears so hale and hearty.

"Pray continue, husband."

A series of broken sighs escape me before I resume.

"However, this concept of _freeholds_ was inconceivable to the Indians whom first inhabited the land. For when they sold the land to the Dutch, they had little notion of what they did, as ownership of land was an unknown concept to them."

"Is that true?" She furrows her brow, her humor apparently dampened by this little-known revelation.

"Aye, I am afraid it is, my love. You see, Mrs. Clearwater descends from the Lenape, and so we have some knowledge of these matters in our household."

She is silent for some moments, and as full as her joy made me a few seconds earlier, her current wistfulness spears my heart. When tears well her eyes, I quickly wrap my arms around her waist and lift her onto my lap.

"Isabella, why are you crying now, my love?"

"That poor woman. Those poor _people_ ," she says, her voice strangled.

"For the love of- aye, Isabella, 'tis unfortunate, but I had no intention of upsetting you so."

With her hands resting on my shoulders, she meets my eyes and smiles, but it be a sad sort of smile. "I shall be well, Edward. I simply find myself rather…sensitive as of late."

My lungs constrict tightly. "Isabella, you must tell me-"

"Continue your story, please?"

I exhale in frustration. "Very well. 'Twas not long after, in about 1685, that my great-great-great-great grandfather, Angus Cullen, arrived from Scotland to escape persecution for his beliefs."

"Contrary beliefs appear a continuous theme in your family."

"That impudence never does abandon you for long, does it?"

She chuckles.

"Grandfather Angus was one of the first to purchase these, large freeholder grants in New Jersey, and as such, he had his pick of the land. Therefore, he chose a parcel with verdant hills, rich forests and meadows, and aye, great flatlands far from the marshes in the colony. He named his grant Cullen Hill, and he built his house on the greatest of these hills so that he could observe and admire all the land from his house. Then, he married Abigail Van Masen, and as their family could no longer claim one land or the other as their birthright, they claimed they were _American_ , and Cullen Hill was their new legacy.

As the Cullen/Van Masen family grew, so did the town around their land. Freehold Township became Monmouth County's seat, and a courthouse was built. Around this courthouse grew more businesses, and Grandfather Angus's eldest son, Edward, decided the town was in need of a tavern."

"Scots do enjoy their spirits," my wife says.

When I slap her behind, she squeals.

"The years passed, and more settlers came into New Jersey from all walks of life: Quakers, Papists, Dutch, Scots, Whigs, Tories, and we coexisted well enough. Through it all, Cullen Hill remained one of the finest farms, while our generations prospered. And prosper we continued for four of these generations, through Angus Cullen, Edward Cullen, Angus Henry Cullen, Carlisle Edward Cullen…and Edward Anthony Cullen, until Parliament decided that Cullen Hill, as well as the rest of the colony and the colonies beyond, were perhaps prospering a little too well; and therefore, we owed them more than we were already providing."

My gaze has wandered to the land beyond as I imagine my forefathers working the fields, tending and caring to the land.

Isabella's hands wander to the nape of my neck. "You are proud of this land, Edward."

"Aye, I am," I say with a smile. Nevertheless, my gaze remains beyond her for I have given her the tale she desired. The next time I meet her eyes, she must give me her truth. "Yet 'tis not merely pride of ownership, Isabella."

"Not pride of ownership? Then, what is it?"

I do not reply immediately, for I must find the right words with which to convey this to my wife.

"Ever since I was a young boy, my father instilled in me a sense of responsibility _for_ the land rather than ownership _of_ the land."

"I…I am not sure I comprehend the difference."

"'Tis much how the Lenape Tribe whom first inhabited Cullen Hill and the rest of New Jersey Colony considered it. Isabella, what we grow here gives back to the land and to its people, especially in these past years with the Troubles up north. We tend to the land so that it may continue to give to us and so we may continue this reciprocation, not because we _own it_. We are as trustees of continuity, my wife, tending to that which has always been and which shall always be, and hopefully someday, providing successors for its enduring growth."

At the very end of my tale, I allow my eyes to fall back on Isabella's lovely face. "Does that make sense?" I murmur.

She holds my gaze for an interminable moment before nodding languidly. "I believe…I believe in time, it might."

Then, we simply sit together, my wife sideways on my lap while her fingers tangle in my hair and our eyes hold. My grip is tight about her slim waist. The birds continue their songs and their flutters, these fellow inhabitants of this fertile land. As the gentle breeze pulls the apple blossoms off their delicate branches, ivory petals cascade about my wife's shoulders like falling snow. 'Tis yet another image, like the one of Isabella in our chambers heralded by the sun in her unclothed glory, which I shall carry with me when I must next depart.

"And so, you have brought Cullen Hill's history to the present."

"I have, and we agreed-"

"'Tis a sweet story, Edward, but a rather complicated one. I am not certain I shall be able to recall all the salient facts for the babe, for he must know his background, must he not? Nevertheless, I shall try my best."

"For the babe?" I tilt my head in puzzlement. "Of what babe do you speak?"

"I speak of our babe, of course. And this notion of responsibility rather than ownership of the land, I shall attempt it, but I believe the lesson must needs come from you, as it did from your forefathers before you, for I admit I struggle with the concept. I do wonder if your grandmothers and your mother struggled with it as well or if 'tis simply me."

I am still lost. The woman has driven me mad once and for all.

"Our babe? Isabella, we do not have…we…we do not…we…we…"

My breath hitches wildly.

In the next moment, it leaves me in a rush.

All the while, Isabella smiles impishly at me, caressing my nape, and raking her hands through my hair.

"Breathe, my love."

"Isabella?"

'Tis the only word I manage, for my heart truly races madly, and breathing is indeed a difficulty, as my heart is lodged in my throat.

"Isabella?"

The imp simply chuckles. I pull her away only enough so that I might study her fully; her entire slim body, her amused expression, for the humor is not merely in her eyes. Her shoulders shake with her merriment.

"Isabella, cease your amusement and reply to my question this instant."

My lovely, beautiful, intelligent, and…and possibly in bloom wife quirks a devilish eyebrow.

"Edward, my love, you must ask your question before I may reply to it."

"Are you…are you carrying our child?"

"Edward, are you not the one who brought up the possibility before you left two months ago? I had thought…when you saw me sick, I thought you suspected-"

"I suspected nothing. Be plain with me, Isabella. Aye or nay?"

Her smile becomes a grin. "Aye, you are a trustee of continuity, Edward, and it appears…it appears you shall soon fulfill your duty and provide a successor," she says softly, her smile suddenly much more tender than teasing. "Rosalie tells me we cannot be absolutely certain until the babe quickens, but I am certain, Edward," she murmurs shakily. And when she takes my hand and places a soft kiss on my palm before guiding the hand to her stomach, my breathing ceases altogether. "I am certain your babe grows within me."

In the next moment, she is in my arms and held so firmly against me her ensuing laughter is muffled by my chest. When I recall she is with child, and I realize I am suffocating both her and our babe, I pull her away swiftly. Then, I curse myself, for now, I have rattled both her and the babe.

"Edward!" she squeals.

"I am so sorry," I say holding her a cautious handful of inches from me. "Are you well? Did I harm you? Did I harm either of you?"

"Edward, do not be ridiculous," she chuckles. "I am well. We are both well. Why do you hold me this way?"

I…I cannot even reply.

"Are _you_ well? Are you happy, Edward?" A fissure of uncertainty flashes in her eyes.

"Isabella…" I breathe. "May I…may I embrace you?"

"I am not of a sudden made of glass, Edward."

With this pronouncement, Isabella situates herself so that she sits astride atop me, and when her arms slide around my shoulders, I pull her in once more, holding her firmly yet gently by the waist. Burying my face against her neck, I release days' worth of pent-up worries.

"You are not dying."

"No, I am not dying," she confirms in a strangled sort of chuckle. "And I am sorry if you believed so and thereby worried needlessly. But Edward, are you _happy_?"

"Happy?" Swallowing thickly to stave off the tears prickling my eyes, I brush my lips to her neck briskly. Again, I pull away to meet her dark eyes – eyes which I already find myself praying for our child to inherit.

"In your father's office hangs a portrait of you and your mother when you were a very young child."

She smiles softly. "I know the one. 'Tis my father's greatest treasure."

I make no comment to that. "The other day when I was there, and I looked up at the portrait and saw the child…saw _you_ …there was nothing in that moment I wanted more than to hold that child, or a version of her, a girl or a boy with those eyes and that impish smile. A part of you…and a part of me joined together, Isabella," – I cradle her sweet face in my hands, and I know my words are erupting in a jumbled rush, but I cannot help myself nor slow down. "Happy, you ask? There is no word for what you have made me. Such joy in the midst of such conflict." I shake my head in wonder. "I do not even comprehend it."

"We shall be well," my wife nods vehemently. "I feel it, Edward. There is conflict, but you and I and our babe shall be well. And we shall provide continuity for these…for these _American_ Cullens."

"Oh, Isabella." I pull her in again, and this time, my mouth finds hers. When I kiss her, 'tis with all the love, and gratitude, and amazement…and aye, even with the first inkling of that next great fear which shall plague me for months.

"Isabella, I love you so." I breathe the words against her mouth and in between kisses. "I love you, and I shall love our child, and I shall care for you both with all I have, this I swear to you."

"I know you shall," she says. "I know it. And I love you as well."

When I cradle her face once more, I hold her dark gaze with more fervency, with more truth than I have ever felt.

"And through you, I make our child this vow." I swallow hard, for I must vow this now in case…in case I do not have another opportunity.

"I will do all I can to ensure you grow up in a world where equality belongs to all, where your rights are respected, and where you have the liberty to pursue your own happiness. This I vow."

And when I pull my wife against me, I rest a hand between us, laying it atop her stomach. Despite what occurs around us, despite the mission which I must now disclose to my wife and on which I must soon embark – for now, more than ever, victory in this life-altering conflict is imperative – in spite of all this…our future grows peacefully within her.

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **So, I think most of you suspected this was the cause of Bella's "illness," lol. I think Edward would've figured it out sooner too if he didn't have so much other crap on his mind. What's more, in those days, pregnancy wasn't as widely spoken of as it is now. Its symptoms, especially as Edward has no siblings, wouldn't have been quite as obvious to him as they were to us. Plus, people died from the craziest shit back then, so yeah. The boy had a little reason to be worried. ;)**

 _ **A Tiny Bit of History on "New Netherland."**_

 **New Netherland was settled in the early 17th century by the Dutch West India Company for the purpose of capitalizing on the North American fur trade. The Native Americans inhabiting the settlement areas of New York, New Jersey, Delaware, and Connecticut (and parts of Pennsylvania and Rhode Island) were offered trinkets and confusing contracts for the rights to something the Native Americans couldn't even fathom, for they had no concept whatsoever of what it meant to "own" the land.**

 **The Fur trade exploded in the 1650s, which led to huge growth in the settlements – and attracted the attention of the English, who came along in 1664 and were like, "Hey guys, all these lands here were "discovered" by one of our boys: Sir Henry Hudson, and we don't give one damn hoot whose freak flag he was flying when he arrived."**

 **In 1673, the Dutch recaptured the land for a little bit but ceded it back to England in 1674.**

 **New Netherland, which became New York and New Jersey, was at the time inhabited by European colonists, American Indians, and Africans – both free and slaves. At the time of transfer to England in 1664, the colonies had an estimated population of seven to eight thousand, half of whom were of Dutch descent.**

 **Today's estimated population between New York (twenty million) and New Jersey (nine million) is Twenty-nine million people, who literally come from every corner of the world. What's more, New York State is the fourth most populated state in the Union per square acre, while New Jersey is the eleventh most populated. :)**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**

" **See" you all soon. :)**


	25. Ch 23 - The Incident at Midnight

**A/N: Thank you all so much for your wonderful thoughts.**

 **I've got great news and maybe-not-so-great news!**

 **There's a second part to this chappy, which I shall TRY to post by tomorrow afternoon. If I don't get a chance, here's some info you may want to know…**

 **The fam and I are going on vacay this Friday! Yay!**

 **The "bad" news is that I won't be updating while we're on vacay. Afterward, when we return, my little one and I will rest for two days before we're on our way to her Dance Nationals in Orlando!**

 **Again, yay!**

 **But again, there will likely be no updates while I'm there.**

 **So basically, if I can update tomorrow, that'll prob be the last update on this story until about mid-July or so.**

 **Also, for those of you who read and enjoyed my story, 'Begin Again,' I've got some news regarding that one at the bottom. ;)**

 **Now, let's get to it.**

 **Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to either history or to me.**

* * *

 **Chapter 23 – The Incident at Midnight**

My husband's voice filters through the shut doors of the dining hall, all the way to where Rosalie and I sit in the kitchen with Leah and Mrs. Clearwater. At times, his voice is loud yet determined. At other times, 'tis rough and tinged with his temper. Edward and Jasper are the ones disagreeing; I know that much.

Strange how just this morn, Edward and I were in the orchards, in the midst of one of the happiest moments we have shared so far in this short, tumultuous union of ours. We spoke of the babe; we dreamed and made plans.

Then, almost in the next instant, we spoke of a General Washington, whom a few hours from now, shall await Edward and his men halfway between Freehold and Trenton. The General shall expect Edward's militia, a militia which Edward plans to somehow free from the town prison. And the General shall await a shipment of godforsaken armaments which my husband has hidden on our land. And since I hold Edward's babe within my womb, my knowledge of these things is apparently no longer a threat.

Armaments. They have been hidden on our property for a fortnight, since Edward's return.

Now, Edward and his fellow Sons of Liberty plot and plan those events which shall take him away from me yet again, while delivering a shipment of armaments.

Rosalie sits beside me at the kitchen table. She and I sort through various medicinal plants and herbs which she shall utilize to tend to the womenfolk who depend on her – one of which shall eventually be me. As is usual when she sees me out of sorts, she finds it necessary to provide a detailed narration of what she does and with what. We use shears to cut and spoons to measure. While she grinds a portion with the mortar and pestle, I tie other pieces with string into bundles and place them within her basket. Then, we fill the empty vials with the ground medicines and place all in her wooden, medicine box.

All the while, our husbands and their friends plot and plan.

"Mistress, have you names in mind for the babe?"

With Edward now informed of the pending addition, Mrs. Clearwater and Leah are free to express their excitement. While the former stirs the pot over the hearth, the latter peels husks off corn.

"I do not, Leah; not yet."

"Would you prefer a girl child or a boy child?" she further enquires.

"I would prefer a hale child."

Mrs. Clearwater chuckles, too good to note the mockery in my tone. "Well, that goes without saying, my dear, but Cullen Hill requires an heir."

"Why cannot an heir be a girl, Mrs. Clearwater?" Rosalie asks with a wry grin.

"I suppose it may, madam. Regardless, before the household become too eager, we must keep the mistress herself hale and hearty throughout the circumstances," she sighs, "and through the birth."

With the silence around the hearth, 'tis obvious when Mrs. Clearwater realizes to what she has alluded. Her eyes are wide and clouded with horror when I meet them.

"Mrs. Clearwater, do not make yourself uneasy," I begin.

"Oh, Mrs. Cullen, all shall be well. Please do not concern yourself with the childbirth. I shall tend to your every need and ensure you are the heartiest-"

"Mrs. Clearwater-"

"Of course she shall be well," Rosalie says. "Be easy, Mrs. Clearwater. Your mistress is young, stubborn, and as healthy as a fattened pig."

"Mrs. McCarty, I pray you are correct."

By this point, the lady is close to tears. Yet, as much affection as I have acquired for her since my union with Edward, her tears are the last thing I need or desire, for they shall bring on my own, and I am far too angry to give in to tears.

"Excuse me," I say brusquely as I stand and head for the back door.

Outside, though the noon hour has come and gone, the sun is still quite strong. It is like an added weight upon my shoulders. As I stalk toward the stables, all I can think of is outrunning the oppressive heat and feeling the breeze upon my face as Hope and I race over the hills. When I am near, Davey, the youngest of the grooms – I do not believe he has reached his thirteenth year – approaches.

"May I help you, Mistress?"

"I shall ride Hope. Please saddle her."

I walk past him, intending to wait within the stables with Hope while she is readied for me. But young Davey blocks my way.

"Your mare is well, Mrs. Cullen. I have tended to her myself this afternoon since the men have been busy with Mr. Cullen and with planning the..." he trails off, but I do not miss how his eyes stray to the barn.

"I thank you, Davey. But now, I would take her for a ride around the grounds. Please saddle her."

Davey frowns and grips the back of his neck. "You see, Mrs. Cullen, Mr. Cullen has asked me to ensure you do not ride unless he is with you," the young boy swallows thickly, "and when you do ride, 'tis only to be with the side saddle."

For a few moments, I cannot speak, and my scalp verily prickles.

"Please saddle my horse."

"Mistress, the master instructed-"

"I care not what the master instructed. Saddle my horse!"

"Please, Mistress," the boy pleads.

"Isabella."

I spin around furiously as Rosalie approaches.

"Do not tell me you agree with this nonsense, Rosalie, for you and I have been riding daily for months."

"I do not agree at all," Rosalie says, "but young Davey's head is about to split in two as he's forced to pick between disobeying master or mistress."

When I turn back to the boy, he indeed shakes and appears to fight back tears.

"Davey, I apologize." I set a hand on his shoulder, fighting back my own tears of remorse. "I shall take it up with my husband. You need not concern yourself."

"Mistress, I did not mean to block your way," he says in a quivering voice.

"Do not concern yourself, Davey. You were merely following my husband's instructions. All is well." I offer him a comforting smile.

"Very well, mistress." He utters the words swiftly before practically sprinting into the stables before his insane mistress changes her mind.

"In my father's household, apologizing to a groom would be unheard of."

Rosalie is silent.

"What sort of mother shall I be when I just frightened a poor boy so?"

"You are upset."

"I am furious."

Here, Rosalie chuckles. "Are you truly?" she smirks. "I had not noticed in the least bit."

"How dare he?"

"How dare the groom or how dare your husband?"

I give her a look which says she knows very well of whom I speak.

She snorts. "I cannot say I am surprised, Isabella. You carry his child now. As much as he may adore you, your role has changed drastically, as has his."

"I should have never told him. I should have simply kept the news entirely to myself," I hiss.

She laughs with her entire being. "Men may not be the most intelligent of creatures, but I dare say your husband would have noticed it eventually – perhaps when a tiny being stretched out his or her plump arms and called him ' _Papa_.'"

Despite my misery, the image she paints with her words makes me smile. "What difference shall it make? He will be gone soon at any rate."

Here again, she says nothing, and I regret my words instantly, for her husband shall be gone as well. I cross my arms against my chest, and after a few moments, I give voice to what we both know has me so upset this afternoon.

"Armaments, Rosalie, hidden within our lands. Know you what would happen if those armaments were discovered here? On your property? On Jasper's property? _All_ would hang – from the youngest groom to Papa Carlisle when he returns."

" _You_ would not hang," she says in that droll manner of hers.

"No." I snort. "No, I would likely not. Now, they plot and plan in the dining hall that which shall affect us all, yet _we_ are banished from the room. How can you bear it?"

"I suppose I have had more time to accept the fact that our men shall not stop; that they have one goal, and they mean to carry it all the way. Besides, Isabella, I have my own pursuits. There are women who depend on me to remain clear-headed and focused regardless of the Troubles in these colonies. What is more, it does no good, for our husbands shall do as they shall do until these colonies may call themselves a nation."

"I…" I swallow thickly, "I understand to a point, Rosalie, but my father is not a stupid man. If they free the militia, whether they be apprehended in the act or not, Father shall know Edward was involved, and by extension, he shall know Emmett was involved, and so forth for the rest."

"They count on his being unable to prove such."

I shake my head and fist my hair, growling in frustration.

"If he allows me to speak to my father, perhaps-"

"Isabella, he would not allow it when 'twas only you. Now that he knows of the babe-"

"I thought his knowledge of the babe was what would have made him listen to me! Instead, everyone has such senseless concerns." Despite the bitterness in my tone, my hand wraps protectively over my stomach. "Edward with my riding habits, and Mrs. Clearwater already wondering if I shall survive childbirth. What of that which shall occur this eve? Should that not be the main concern?"

"As I said, Isabella; they shall do as they shall do."

Miserably, I stare out at the landscape as the sun hides behind the clouds and the field is blanketed in a vast, dark shadow.

"The babe within me has made me all the more important…and yet all the more impotent."

"Dearest, since the beginning of time, it has been the lot of women. You willingly take on the most essential duty of all, yet the men believe they may limit you all the more for it. They fight for the equality of all, yet they keep you in the kitchen."

When she finishes, she swallows thickly, and as I watch this exceedingly strong woman fight her own tears, I am wracked by more guilt than ever for leading the conversation in this direction. She speaks of this most essential duty, but she does not include herself in the description because for some inexplicable reason, Rosalie has been excluded from motherhood. Yet, for the past few hours, I have done nothing but bemoan my own situation.

I believe I shock myself as much as I do her when I cup Rosalie's cheek, for I have never been the demonstrative sort – at least, not before I met my husband.

"Rosalie, what would I do without your friendship these past months?"

Instead of replying with one of her witty retorts, she blinks back her tears and smiles.

OOOOOOOOOO

When I quietly open the dining hall doors and step inside, Edward is seated at the long, rectangular table. The rest of the men are stood and gathered 'round him. In front of my husband is spread out a large parchment, and they are all apparently so involved with it that none note my entry.

"He shall await us here," Edward says, pointing sharply at some point on the parchment. "But we only have a window of two hours, for if we do not appear within those two hours, I have beseeched the General not to tarry. He is too valuable to the Cause to risk capture if we should fail."

"And if we do fail?" Emmett asks.

"If we fail…those of us who make it out must find their way to Quebec. If Alice Andre's information is correct, the British are planning something up North; perhaps recapture of the forts or reinforcement of those they still hold to prevent us from joining with Quebec in the struggle."

"Edward, how do we know we can trust that woman's information?" Jasper asks.

My husband looks up at him. "We do not know, Jasper. I am conjecturing that somehow Alice is aware of the true loyalties of Isabella's husband, which is why she writes in the manner in which she does."

"But she is Tory, is she not? And she is married to a lobsterback."

"Aye, but if she be as deeply entrenched in the Cause as I suspect…perhaps a Daughter of Liberty...?"

"The Daughters of Liberty truly exist?" Seth asks.

"Aye," Edward nods. "When we dumped the tea in Boston, 'twas a Daughter of Liberty, Sarah Fulton, who came up with the notion we dress as Mohawks. General Washington informs me this same woman was at the Battle of Bunker Hill last month, coordinating nurses to help with the wounded."

"There are rumors Sarah Franklin, Ben Franklin's daughter, is also a Daughter of Liberty," Emmett says.

"Good for her," Jasper says. "Though her brother, our colony's Royal governor, William Franklin, be a traitor, at least Ben Franklin knows his daughter to be a true patriot like he."

My husband nods his agreement. "And there are others, such as Mrs. Margaret Gage," he points out. "From what my wife tells me, she and Alice were both close Mrs. Gage. I do not believe it be a far leap to conjecture that if Alice was already sympathetic to the Patriot cause, her friendship with Mrs. Gage led her to the Daughters of Liberty."

"And once Mrs. Gage learned of Isabella's union to you, as a Daughter of Liberty, Mrs. Gage would know your true alliances," Emmett says.

"Exactly, and as we trusted Mrs. Gage, and my wife trusts Alice, then so shall I."

They are silent for a handful of seconds. Meanwhile, I stand there with my mouth agape, for my husband has made all these shocking connections…and all unknown to _me_.

"Very well. We shall trust as well, Edward, but let us leave now, and let us utilize that shipment. Too much is at stake to take this slowly."

My husband shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Jasper, as we have discussed, we must await the cover of night. Moreover, weapons shall only be used as a last resort."

Jasper bangs a palm against the table. "For God's sake, Edward! What difference does it make? Think you Major Swan will not suspect us?"

"Damnation!" Edward bangs the table as well. "Whether he suspects or not-"

"Edward?"

"What is it?" He is so involved, he answers curtly, and when he looks up and sees me, his irritation morphs into remorse. "Isabella, my love, I apologize." Then quickly, his remorse becomes confusion. "What is it, Isabella? Are you well?"

Attempt to calm my racing heart, I draw in a deep breath and refuse to allow my anxiousness to seep into my speech.

"May we speak?"

He frowns. "Now? The men and I are in the midst-"

"Aye. Now, Edward."

Jasper makes a sound of impatience under his breath, while Edward exhales his own heavy breath.

"Very well."

He excuses himself and strides swiftly to where I stand by the doors at the other end of the room. The men continue in hushed whispers. Edward takes my hand, and furrowing his brow, he searches my eyes.

"Are you truly well, Isabella?"

"May we speak in the hallway?"

He offers me a sharp and wary nod.

With his hand on the small of my back, he leads me through the dining hall doors and into the hallway. Once we are alone, he curves his hands 'round my shoulders and dips his head to my level.

"You are worrying me, my love," he whispers. "Are you sure you and the babe are well?"

Before replying, I shut my eyes for one moment. When I reopen them, his gaze is all the more alarmed.

"We are well, Edward."

"Thank the Lord," he exhales. "Then, what is this about?"

"Edward, when you asked to see Alice's letter earlier, why did you not tell me of your suspicions regarding her involvement with these…Daughters of Liberty?"

His brow furrows. "I saw no reason to do so."

"No reason to do so? Edward, she is my friend, and you are my husband. I have a right to know if she is attempting to communicate with you through me, do I not?"

He holds my gaze silently for a handful of seconds before nodding once.

"Very well. I should have told you, but I know you have been upset this afternoon, after I told you of…of the hidden armaments, and in your condition-"

"Edward, I have been speaking with Rosalie, and I believe we have thought of a strategy for dealing with my father."

For one moment, something like fury flashes in his eyes, but in the next moment, his expression becomes inscrutable.

"A strategy?"

"Aye, Edward. If we can distract my father-"

He does not even allow me to finish.

"Isabella, I told you before, and I shall repeat it now: you are not involving yourself in this. Now, we shall be done in a moment, and then we may have dinner and-"

"And what? What, Edward?" I ask through gritted teeth. "Then, we make love one last time before you depart again? I am good enough to bed but not good enough to listen to?"

"Stop," he says. "I am not arguing this with you when you know that is not true."

"Edward, you are making preparations to break into a prison guarded by a regiment of Regulars and Dragoons, including James, where if you do not get caught and shot on sight, you shall open fire on my _father_."

"I shall do all I can to keep it from coming to that; I have already told you so. But what would you have me do other than free the men?" he hisses. "They are my men, and they are about to be thrown into a prison ship."

"And he is my father!"

He grips his hair. "Isabella, we cannot do this now. I shall not argue with you. You are with child, and you cannot-"

"I cannot, what? I cannot think? I cannot reason?"

Edward cages my face between his hands. "Stop this. I shall not have you upsetting yourself in this manner."

"How can this not upset me? You are leaving me again!"

His hands fall to my arms, where he holds me gently yet firmly. "You knew this, Isabella. When I left for Trenton yesterday morn, you already knew I would be leaving again soon. The fact that you are with child makes my departure all the more necessary, for now, the Cause is all the more important. Our son or daughter shall _not_ be a son or daughter of the Crown."

"I knew you were leaving, aye. What I did not know was that you had hidden weapons on our land! Furthermore, I am under no mistaken impression that the child or I would ever take priority over your Cause. Do not overly concern yourself with that."

My husband releases a long breath, momentarily shutting his eyes. "You are being needlessly argumentative, for that is untrue, and you know it. Do not do this. You are enraged, but 'tis painful enough for me to leave you now without you saying such things."

"But after forcing yourself into the town prison and releasing my father's prisoners, with an armament of weaponry that has the power to turn this endeavor into another Lexington and Concorde, what plan you, Edward?" I chuckle humorlessly. "Truthfully, what plan you?"

"I plan to return to you after we deliver the armaments to Massachusetts."

"My father shall never allow you within one hundred miles of Freehold if you go through with this. You shall be a wanted criminal, and you shall lose more than the tavern and your land, for he shall not allow you near your child or me."

"The tavern and the land he may keep; but he shall _never_ keep me from you," he says with forced composure.

"You speak without reasoning, Edward, for you shall be in prison or dead, and in no position to make demands or claims. What is more, if James sees you-"

Here, all sense of forced composure abandons my husband.

"If I see James, I shall kill him," he seethes.

"If he does not kill you first."

He steps back from me, shaking his head in disbelief as if I have struck him. "What is this? How is it that just a few hours ago, we were in the orchards, happier than we have ever been?"

"I was thinking much the same when I was banished to the kitchen." I want to kick myself when my voice breaks, for I am not here to show him weakness. "And after you told me you had hidden armaments on our land for a fortnight without my knowledge as if I had no say."

"That is not why-"

"Why do you accept that Alice may help the Cause but not I?"

"Because Alice is not my _wife_ , Isabella," Edward growls. "If she wishes to risk life and limb for her country, then I commend her. But _you_ shall not follow her lead."

Before I can respond to that abominable speech, he closes all distance between us and slides his hands through my hair, up to the nape of my neck. Despite how outraged I am, his touch is like a soothing balm.

"Listen to me, Isabella Cullen. I love you, and you know this, though you may be too furious at the moment to acknowledge it." He dips his head to my level and forces me to hold his gaze. "I do what I do now to keep you safe. I kept information from you for your own safety. And I _shall_ keep the vows I made in the orchard to you and our child. And…I promise you, we shall not fire a weapon unless we are fired at first."

"Is this supposed to reassure me? Edward…" Despite my efforts, a solitary tear rolls down my cheek as I reach up and cradle his face. "Edward, I know you love me, and I know you mean to keep your vows, but allowing me to help does not go against those vows. I heard you speaking of those Daughters of-"

"Isabella, enough. Go. When we finish, I shall come to get you."

His dismissal stings worse than any indignation I have ever suffered at anyone's hands. And with his decree issued, my husband, lord, and master turns his back to me and opens the dining hall doors.

"Edward, please listen to me. Your way shall cause too much irreparable damage."

When he does not pause, the words lunge from me like a poisonous arrow.

"You call this love? You are no different than my father, nor different than John Andre nor James Pitman nor any other man I may have married in the way you disregard me when it suits you."

With the doors open, the room at large has heard me. Edward's steps completely still. The rest of the men cast their gazes about, pretending they heard nothing. And aye, part of me regrets my shameful display, my hurtful words, and the embarrassment I have caused him. Yet, the more substantial part of me merely _needs_ to get through to him.

When Edward turns and crosses the room in three strides, for a fraction of a moment, I do believe I have pushed him too far. He dips his head to my eye level, barely an inch of space between us as fire alights his gaze. He holds my chin between two fingers, and his mouth hovers close. But when he opens his mouth, 'tis not to caress my lips with his.

"You are so incensed you do not even see how you contradict yourself. Isabella, I love you with my entire being, and you may curse the day you married and compare me to anyone you wish. I shall still not risk you or our child to prove some point, to prove how much I do value your mind. You shall not be involved in this."

With finality, he backs away slowly without breaking our gaze. And when he walks back into the dining hall, he pushes the doors closed, his eyes on mine until the doors meet.

OOOOOOOOOO

'Tis in the darkness of the first hour of the new day when I arrive at my father's house…at my father's commandeered quarters in Freehold Township.

Rosalie and I both sweep our eyes 'round our surroundings, ensuring no one is about before we knock. Due to the late hour and because the town remains under martial law, the only souls about should be Regulars patrolling the streets and their green-coated counterparts. 'Tis a moonless night, and only the street lanterns provide illumination. 'Tis barely sufficient to see our hands before us, and so we may only pray as we look at one another and simultaneously drop our hoods. With a deep breath, I reach for the door knocker and give it two, quick and hard raps.

The pounding in my heart makes time stretch like a fathomless ocean, where every beat is resounding wave. In actuality, less than a minute transpires before the door is opened, and Lieutenant Felix, Father's secretary, stands at the other side.

"Miss Swan," he breathes in shock. His gaze strays to Rosalie at my side, and before he may say more, I take Rosalie's hand and walk us past the Lieutenant and into the house.

"Lieutenant Felix, is my father within?"

He nods wordlessly. "Aye," he says after a few beats as if he has recovered his speech. "Aye, Miss- I mean, Mrs."

"Please fetch him-"

"Isabella?"

I look up sharply to the winding staircase, where my father quickly descends, still in uniform, his boots pounding heavily against each step.

"Father."

I clamp a hand over my mouth right before he reaches the landing, and in three long strides, he envelops me in his warm embrace. There, I give into my tears for the betrayal I am about to commit.

"My dear," Father coos. "All will be well." He strokes my hair much as he did when I was a young girl. For a while, we remain that way, though I am aware that Rosalie stands silently beside me.

Finally, Father pulls back enough to look at me. "Isabella, what do you here and at this time? What has happened?"

"Father, I…" I say shakily, my bottom lip trembling in weakness, "I desperately need your help."

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**

 _ **A Short History Lesson on The Daughters of Liberty, for those who are interested:**_

 _ **It wasn't just the guys who fought for freedom during the Revolution. While women weren't "allowed" to be the bad-asses they are today and actually participate in combat, there were still many contributions they made to The Cause. The Daughters of Liberty were a formal women Patriot association formed in 1765 to protest the Stamp Act and later fought for liberty during the Revolution.**_

 _ **Since women were still very limited at the time, the main tasks of the Daughters of Liberty were to protest in boycotts and non-importation movements before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War. The Daughters of Liberty participated in spinning bees, helping to produce homespun cloth for colonists to wear instead of British textiles. So, while Isabella walked around in her imported garments, women such as Rosalie wore clothing they made themselves.**_

 _ **The Daughters of Liberty are also well known for drinking what was later known as "liberty tea." Leaves from berries and other herbs were commonly used as tea substitutes so people could still enjoy tea while refusing to buy goods imported through Britain. These are the sort of teas Mrs. Clearwater would boil for the household. Chapters of the Daughters of Liberty throughout the colonies melted down metal for bullets and helped sew soldiers' uniforms.**_

 _ **And finally, there were instances of women who participated in the Revolution through much more dangerous and/or clandestine ways: secret authors of seditious pamphlets, and a handful who actually dressed as men to fight in the battles, and of course, there were the female spies…**_

 **Hope to "see" you all soon, maybe tomorrow? If not, I'll "see" you all in a couple of weeks. ;)**

 **Oh, yes! Regarding 'Begin Again!'**

 **Well, those of you on Facebook may have seen the teaser I posted for my sequel to 'Begin Again,' which will be entitled "Begin Again…Again.' The story will begin posting toward late summer. I'll keep you all informed, and if you follow me either on fanfiction, Facebook, or Twitter, you'll hear about it.**

 **Take care!**


	26. Ch 24 - The Incident in the Smythe Home

**A/N: Happy Friday Afternoon!**

 **Thank you all so much for all your wonderful thoughts as well as your well-wishes for our fam vacation and my daughter's dance competition! We had a wonderful time. Now, I'm back. :)**

 **Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to either history, or to me.**

 **Chapter 24 – The Incident in the Smythe Home**

* * *

Father and I stand together in the middle of the Smythe family's home, which he and I once shared for a few, brief months within the mostly-carefree eighteen years in which I existed as a maiden daughter. Much has changed in the short period since. I am now a wife, soon to be a mother, and aye, I have many cares.

His eyes narrow in perceptive scrutiny as he takes me in, for he is accustomed to reading me easily.

"We have had our differences, Isabella, yet my daughter and my heart you shall always be. What plagues you?"

"'Tis related to Edward."

Father's impassive features sharpen significantly. "If he has hurt you, I shall kill him."

"He has not hurt me, Father. Edward loves me as I love him, and he would never harm me."

My father shuts his eyes and releases a long breath. Yet, his apparent relief lasts merely a moment.

"Then, what hangable offense has your traitorous patriot of a husband committed now?"

I pull away from him and take two, quick steps back. "He has done nothing, and I resent the assumption to the contrary."

"Can you blame me? He has given sufficient reason as of late."

For a few seconds, I glare openly at my father, making my own attempt to read him, for once I could do so almost as easily as he. Shaking my head, I make my way to the door.

"This was an error in judgment, for you are obviously not of a mind to listen and act fairly when it comes to matters related to my husband. Rosalie, let us go. We shall attempt to stop them ourselves."

"Aye, Isabella. That would likely be best." I hear the swishing of Rosalie's skirts behind me before my father speaks again.

"Stop _who_ yourselves?"

I do not reply as I lift my hood over my head. Lieutenant Felix, who stands by the door, eyes me with wariness. He appears to mentally weigh the benefits and drawbacks of an attempt to stop me.

"I would not," I say to him as I reach for the doorknob.

"Isabella, wait. Stop _who_ yourselves? Isabella. Isabella! Fine, I shall listen and act fairly!"

With a deep breath, I halt and turn, once more dropping my hood as I take measured, tentative steps closer to my father.

"Do I have your word, sir, that you shall listen and act fairly?"

"You have my word as a servant of the Crown."

"That is not enough. Do I have your word as my _father_?"

His chest rises and falls as he fists the top of his curled, pale wig. "You have my word as your father."

For one, long moment, I hold his gaze. "Very well. I shall trust you then."

"Good. Now, tell me what this is about."

"Father, the men you hold in the town prison…they are friends of my husband."

He replies without pause or surprise. "Of that, I am aware. In the past, they all spent much time together in congress within his tavern."

"Aye, they did," I concede. "They have all grown up together and matured into men together. 'Tis only natural that, along with Rosalie's husband, Emmett, and with their friend, Jasper Hale, they share similar beliefs." I look to Rosalie, who stands just to my side. She nods in silent agreement.

Father eyes me speculatively. "Again, I am aware."

"Naturally, the men's imprisonment has upset my husband. Nightly, he and his friends bemoan the rest of their friends' plight."

"I shall not free them, Isabella," my father says. "If that is what you have come to request, I am sorry, for I shall not grant this. I love you, and I shall do much for you, but I draw the line at freeing men who attempted an uprising against my men and the Crown. As per English laws regarding treason, they shall be sent to an English prison ship to await final judgment."

"My own thoughts on the fairness of such a judgment notwithstanding, I shall tell you I make no such request from you, Father."

"Your thoughts on fairness once mirrored mine, yet much has changed since your marriage. Am I to assume then, that you are here at your husband's behest to make the request on his behalf?"

I throw my hands up in the air. "Damnation! Why does everyone always believe I lurk around fulfilling the bids of others as if I do not possess my own mind? I am here of my own volition, Father, no one else's!"

Father's head jerks back. "Good Lord, even your outbursts have grown in vehemence."

"I apologize," I say shakily, "but Edward would never, ever request much less condone such a thing as my begging a favor from anyone on his behalf! If you acknowledge nothing else of his character, at the very least acknowledge this."

He holds my gaze for a few seconds before offering me a tight nod. "Very well; 'tis acknowledged. Then, truthfully, why are you here, Isabella?"

My chest heaves, and my body verily vibrates with my shaking. Unequal yet to say what I must, I glare down at the floor instead.

"Isabella…" Father reaches for me, but I am still too angry at him. When I remain out of his reach, he drops his hand to his side.

"The truth is Father…the truth is you are correct; my husband is a Patriot."

With my head down, I cannot see his expression, but I hear Father's heavy exhalation.

"And…and aye, he is sometimes outspoken in his beliefs, rash in his judgment, whimsical in his thoughts, and ideologically-inclined toward some Utopian, self-governed society, which of course can never truly exist."

Father snorts.

"Yet, in actions, my husband is a man of responsibility – and responsibility he shall never shirk nor take lightly. With his father growing older, Edward has people whose livelihood depend on him and on our land. What is more, he is a married man now, and…"

"And…?" Father prompts when seconds transpire, and I fail to continue.

When I raise my eyes to him, a small, irrepressible smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. 'Tis instinctive at this point when I splay a hand protectively 'cross my stomach.

"And if all goes well, Edward shall soon be a father."

Father watches me through rounded eyes, mouth agape before his breath hitches sharply. He shuts his mouth with an audible clap of teeth against teeth.

"Isabella, is this true? Are you telling me you shall soon be a… _I_ shall soon be a…"

My smile grows. "By Rosalie's calculations, I shall be a mother, and you shall be a grandfather shortly after the new year."

At this, my father can no longer contain himself. He lifts his hands to my shoulders and draws me near.

"Dear Lord." He pulls back and watches me with open amazement. "Dear Lord," he repeats in a quiet, wistful voice, a small smile tugging 'cross his own mien. "I wish your mother would have lived to see this."

I swallow thickly and lay a palm over his rough, weathered cheek. "As do I, Father, and as your first thought at this news was of Mother, I am sure you see how this has become the main concern between my husband and me."

"Of course," he readily agrees. Then, he quirks a brow. "Though, I suggest your husband's next concern should be pledging and renewing his loyalty to the King, something he refused to do last I saw him, despite all the trouble in which he found himself."

"I believe he was punished sufficiently, Father, by having his tavern seized."

"I was lenient with him," he counters.

"You took away a part of his livelihood," I say with a humorless chuckle, "a part of his family's legacy…a part of _our child's_ legacy."

"Isabella, the child must be born into a household undoubtedly aligned to the Crown. The Swans have been loyal to England as far back as the Norman invasion. My grandchild shall not be raised with hatred toward the Mother Country in his or her breast," he hisses. "I hope you do not plan to allow such an insult to our forebearers."

I bite my tongue to hold back the words at the tip of it – the reminder that Edward's and my child shall be an American _Cullen_ , not a English _Swan_.

"Father, let us be honest; my husband shall never hold the Mother Country in any regard, for in his heart, a Patriot he shall likely remain for the rest of his days, regardless of how this current conflict ends. But I shall be the child's mother, and while I cannot assure you the child's nightly prayers will end in 'God save the King,' he or she shall not be taught hatred toward England or its English forefathers."

"Isabella," he says indignantly, unsatisfied with my reply. But I forestall him.

"Moreover, as a father yourself, I am sure you understand that what is most important to Edward and I is the health of our unborn child, not its allegiance at birth."

His chagrin is instant. "Forgive me. 'Tis as it should be," he agrees sedately, cradling my cheek in his hand. "The child's health…and yours are paramount. Nevertheless, this _Cause_ toward a nonexistent nation should be set aside for these heftier concerns."

"Aye, and that is very well why I am here."

"Tell him, Isabella," Rosalie encourages when I fail to continue. "We have no other choice. For all our sakes, tell him."

"I do not know if I can."

She lays a hand on my shoulder. "You must."

"Isabella?" Father's voice is laced with such concern, it spears me. "Dear Lord, are you well, daughter?"

"I am well, Father, I assure you. 'Tis Edward's friend, Jasper Hale, who concerns us."

"Mr. Hale? What of him?"

"Nightly does Jasper attempt to destroy the peace and extinguish the newfound joy in my household." My tone hardens. "As my husband and I plan for our growing family, Jasper whispers such ideas in Edward's ears, refusing to accept that these foolish notions are no longer my husband's main concerns."

Father's whiskers curl in anger and disgust. "Has he no wife?"

"No, sir."

"No occupation?"

"He farms his own land."

"Then no holdings or tenants?"

"None beyond his small parcel and home."

"A man with no true responsibilities," Father says. He shakes his head while contempt twists his lips into a sneer. "'Tis precisely the sort of aimless, trivial existence which has encouraged this inane cause toward patriotism and self-determination," he snorts.

"Aye. And while Jasper may have once been able to rile my husband's indignation on behalf of his friendship with the imprisoned men, as I said, Edward and I have more important issues with which to contend. Yet, Jasper continues his badgering, night after night. And this evening…"

"This evening…?"

"Isabella, tell him," Rosalie breathes.

Drawing in a deep breath, I release it in one long gust through narrowed lips. "This evening, the three men once again argued regarding the imprisoned men. Yet, the argument grew most violent, Father."

"Were you harmed?" he asks quickly.

"No, Father. Our husbands banished us to the kitchen."

"As it should be."

I clench my fists at my sides and force myself to ignore that statement.

"Nevertheless, they shouted with such vehemence that Rosalie and I clearly heard everything."

Father's brow lifts in undisguised curiosity. "What did they say?"

My heart races. "Jasper has apparently recruited men from a nearby town, and they aim to make their way here into Freehold before daybreak."

"With what purpose?" My father asks, frowning deeply now.

"To renew the failed uprising," I say in a strangled whisper. "Jasper wanted…he wanted Edward and Emmett to join him, and to order our tenants to join as well, but Edward and Emmett refused. Their hearts go out to the imprisoned men and their families, but-"

"But they have families and true responsibilities," my father finishes for me.

"Aye," I barely mouth before dropping my gaze to the floor between us.

"And now, you are afraid that with the trouble your husbands have recently been in, should these men attempt an uprising, your husbands shall be believed a part of it."

"Aye," I say in a choked voice.

"A genuine fear, I am afraid. I am glad you came to me."

A handful of seconds transpire. Father brushes his whiskers his thumb and forefinger as he ponders what I have told him.

"Where is Mr. Hale to meet with these men? Do you know?"

"They come from the north, from the direction of New Brunswick. I believe he meant to meet them on the main road halfway between both towns."

"New Brunswick," my father scowls darkly, "another haven for these damnable rebels. Of how many men do we speak?" he further inquires.

"I believe three and twenty or thereabouts."

"Three score, I believe he said, Isabella. Did he not say three score?" Rosalie says.

"You are likely correct," I say. "I was too nervous to hear the number correctly."

"Three score? That be a significant number." When Father releases my arms and steps back, I force my gaze upward to meet his, but he is a man of action and already on the move. From the middle of the room, I watch him stride around delivering orders. He is no longer my father but Major Charles Swan of the King's Royal Army.

"Lieutenant Felix," he barks, "where is Captain Pitman?"

The Lieutenant swiftly approaches my father. "He and his men are guarding the prison, Major."

"Fetch him quickly. Tell him to leave a small contingent around the prison, but to bring the rest of his men. We have not a moment to lose."

"Yes, sir!" The Lieutenant rushes off to do my father's bidding.

Next, Father turns to his valet. "Fetch my gear and weapons, and I want you and Lieutenant Marcus to escort my daughter and Mrs. McCarty back home."

"Father promise me you shall take care, and please promise me you shall not act in haste!"

"If Mr. Hale attempts another uprising, I shall act as need be."

"But Father, if all you find are men together doing nothing more than sharing their thoughts, should they not be allowed to-"

My father swiftly approaches me and grabs my shoulders firmly yet carefully. "Isabella, go home."

"But Father-"

"Listen to me. You must return home swiftly."

"But I-"

"First and foremost, you are with child," he hisses. "If I did not know from firsthand experience how even under the most watchful eye you manage to slip in and out of places where you should not be, I would add 'unpardonable carelessness' to my list of grievances against your husband."

"Father! I thought we agreed-"

"Secondly, as much as I am not fond of your husband's idealistic beliefs, and as much as I value James Pitman for his…" he sighs, "you are Mr. Cullen's wife, and he is correct in that James should be kept as far from you as possible. He still harbors feelings for you, which cannot be. Nevertheless, James will soon be here. Thirdly, you and Mrs. McCarty need to ensure your husbands remain by their hearths tonight, for if Mr. Hale does manage to convince them to go with him-"

When a series of furious poundings, which sound like heavy boots and fists, strike the door, I jump and gasp. The pounding intensifies.

"ISABELLA!"

When I recognize the voice, all air leaves my lungs, and my father curses under his breath. His valet has delivered his pistol, and rather than stowing it, Father assumes a protective stance in front of Rosalie and me. As he looks toward the door and nods once in signal for his lieutenant to open, he holds up the pistol. The moment the Lieutenant unlatches the door, 'tis pushed back with such force that the poor man goes reeling halfway 'cross the room, while the door slams into the wall.

"Isabella!"

I am locked within the furiously clouded green eyes of my husband, with Emmett right behind him. They stop at the threshold for just a moment, while Edward takes me in from head to foot. And though he must see my father and his pistol in his periphery, my husband neither breaks our gaze nor does his stride falter once he makes his way toward me.

"Mr. Cullen," father warns.

"Father, set down your weapon! That is my husband!"

In three strides, Edward is at my side. He glowers at me, aye, yet when he takes me by the shoulders, when he touches me, relief floods through me. His eyes shut, and he mouths words I cannot hear. When he reopens his eyes, his agony is evident, and my heart constricts for the pain I know I have caused.

"I had no choice, Edward."

Edward swallows thickly. "'Twas my fault you saw it that way. This should never have occurred. I am to blame.''

"Edward, let us go home," I say swiftly.

He remains still, his hands firmly curved around my shoulders, his expression vacillating between anger, agony, guilt, and everything in between, and I know I must get him out of my father's house.

"Let us go home, Edward," I repeat.

"Mr. Cullen, take your wife home," my father says. "Take care of your true responsibilities."

"Father, do not lecture-"

Edward snorts. "For once in his life, your father is correct." Despite his ire, he cradles my face in his hands. "Are you well?"

"I am fine, Edward."

Still, he stands there, unmoving, locked in place and keeping me locked in place. In my periphery, I see Emmett lay a hand on his shoulder.

"Edward, we have retrieved our wives. Let us go."

Seconds which feel like hours transpire before Edward finally blinks. Swiftly, he takes my hand and moves toward the door.

"Mr. Cullen," father calls out, "Isabella has told me of what Mr. Hale plans."

Edward halts, yet his gaze remains front and center, his chest rising and falling with his heavy breaths as his nostrils flare and his grip on my hand tightens.

"And I…I trust you care for your wife and unborn child sufficiently to understand she did so to keep you from hanging. Regardless of what occurs between now and dawn, remain close to her."

Edward does not turn toward my father nor acknowledge his words in any other way beyond pulling me into his side as he leads us out of the house. He speaks no words as he guides us to where Aro and Emmett's horse, Caius, await.

"Where is Hope?" I ask in a panic, for she is not tied to where I left her. "And where is Rosalie's mare?"

"Davey and Seth are riding them home," Edward replies curtly. Then, he picks me up by the waist and situates me sideways over Aro before easily hefting himself up behind me. When I attempt to situate myself astride, he firmly wraps his arm 'round my stomach and pulls me against his chest.

"Damnation, remain sideways," he hisses through his teeth and in my ear.

Despite my own growing ire, I know better than to pick this fight, and so I simply sigh in frustration.

"Are you ready?" he breathes.

Aye, he is furious, yet the hand he has on my stomach strokes our child and me tenderly. For one moment, I am reminded of a night which now seems so long ago, when I first rode Aro with him after he discovered me trespassing within his tavern on the most inopportune of evenings. On that night also, he was infuriated. Yet I recall how periodically, I would feel his warm breath on my hair and the tips of his fingers stroking my skin as if he could not help himself.

"Edward-"

"Not now, Isabella. We shall speak at home."

I have only a handful of moments in which I try to meet Rosalie's gaze across the darkness, where Emmett has situated her over Caius, before we are off.

OOOOOOOOOO

Edward rides swiftly to Cullen Hill, though I know 'tis not as fast as he and Aro are able to go. Nevertheless, we arrive without issue, for which I give sincere thanks even though I know my husband has seethed all the way home. He dismounts first, and though we are surrounded by the dozen or so men who have remained, none dare approach as Edward takes me by the waist and guides me off his tall horse.

As soon as he is assured both my feet have touched ground, Edward does an about-face. I watch warily as he stalks a few steps away, removes his tricorn and furiously flings it into the darkness. Then, he throws his head up to the black, moonless sky and emits the growl of a beast.

All those around us remain silent.

After a couple of minutes, my husband stalks back toward me, his angular jaw squared tight, his shoulders tense and rigid.

He dips his eyes to my level, and even in the darkness, I see how his eyes burn as with a fire from within.

"You shall never, EVER again involve yourself in something like this! Am I understood?" He digs his forefinger powerfully into his chest. " _I_ shall never again involve you-"

"Yes, I shall," I grit through my teeth, "if the necessity ever again arises, if I am able to-"

"HELL AND DAMNATION!" He shouts so forcefully I reel back momentarily before my fury multiplies, and with a fire burning in my own veins, I close all distance between us.

"How dare you-"

"How dare I?" he asks in disbelief.

"Aye, how dare you! You were not supposed to follow me to my father's house! I told you I would be safe once there! Seth and Davey rode with us most of the way, and Rosalie and I were almost done! Your actions could have been the ones to give us away!"

He stares at me as if I have spoken a tongue foreign to him. Then, he drops his head and shakes it from side to side, abruptly chuckling in a way that sounds as if he wants to howl once more. Again, his inflamed gaze meets mine.

"Isabella, do you not realize what I have done this night? I have endangered my wife and my child."

"You have not."

"Aye," he nods miserably. "I have. I have. And I can tell myself 'twas done to save scores of men, but it does not change the salient fact."

"Edward." I swallow thickly and reach up to cradle his handsome yet despondent face. "Edward, my love, I was not in any danger. This is what you must understand. I was with perhaps the only other man in this world besides you who would set my life before his."

He snorts in disgust, keeping his gaze straight ahead. "Did I not prove that perfectly this eve?" he asks mockingly.

"Aye, you did," I insist. "By not keeping to our plan, and by coming to get me, you proved you would set my life before yours, even though 'twas not necessary. You, Jasper, Emmett, Rosalie, and I, we planned everything well, and my father believed me because most of what I said…most of what I said was the truth. And though it pains me much that I had to lead him astray," I say, my voice breaking and my hold on his face tightening, "I would do so again if it meant helping those men…and helping you."

Still, he shakes his head miserably.

"'Tis no wonder you accused me earlier of being no better than James or John Andre, when I send you into the lion's den to assist me in righting a wrong _I_ committed."

"Stop this, Edward." Now, I fist his hair and give his head a good shake. "I am sorry I said such a thing, and you did not send me anywhere. You railed and howled against it, and 'twas only on the insistence of Jasper and myself that you finally relented, and apparently only long enough for Rosalie and me to make it halfway to town before you gave chase! I was nowhere near a lion's den. Good Lord, Edward, my father is second only to you in his care of me! 'Twas why I suggested such a scheme in the first place! 'Twas the perfect solution, and I thought you finally accepted it! Now, he, James, and most of the regiment shall be away from the prison long enough for Jasper and the men to rescue the militia. What is more, Father's regiment shall head in the opposite direction from where your General Washington shall await Jasper, the men, and the weaponry. The militia shall be freed, the General shall get more men and weaponry to help free Boston from the siege…and no one I care for need be hurt."

His head continues shaking side to side. "And all it took was my sending my expecting wife into danger. Never again, Isabella. Never again."

"I was not in danger, and you cannot say never again, for you do not know if-"

Finally, his eyes meet mine, but the determination burning within them does nothing to set me at ease.

"I do know, Isabella. I do know. And I say never. again."

Our gazes remain locked, neither one of us flinching nor blinking. I am not sure how long this lasts before Emmett approaches.

"Edward, we must go. Once Jasper and the rest of our men free the militia, General Washington shall be waiting for us."

I choke back the sob threatening to escape, for despite all which has occurred this night, 'tis still not done, not by half. And there is absolutely nothing I can do to assist with the next part of the endeavor other than to stay home with the rest of the women and with the men too young to accompany Emmett and Edward.

We have argued most violently. We have disagreed. Yet, in the next moment, my husband pulls me into his arms and against his chest, holding me as tightly as I know he dares. Heedless of all awaiting him, he slides his hands 'round the nape of my neck and presses his lips to mine hard, his breath mixing with mine as I cling to his neck. We speak quickly and against one another's mouths.

"I love you more than I know how to express, my wife-"

"I know you do, Edward. As do I-"

"Forgive me for what I have put you through-"

"There is nothing to forgive-"

"'Twill be a long while before I can forgive myself. And yet, it does not end with this, does it? For I must leave you again now, and make all the pleas of you I made months ago." He places a hand on my belly, and a quiet whimper escapes me. "If I do not return, tell our babe it was loved by his or her father."

"I shall," I choke.

His eyes search mine, and in his, I see there is so much more he wishes to say, we both wish to say. But in this short marriage of ours, we have never had sufficient time. I find myself wondering if we ever shall.

In place of more words, he kisses me again, swiftly yet with a lingering passion which remains even as he pulls away and walks off. The men have hitched Aro and Caius to the waiting wagon full of weapons. Duncan waits further down the road with his own wagonful of weaponry. Vaguely do I stop to think that with her father gone, and town in disarray, Katrina shall be my unwanted guest.

Edward, Emmett, and the men who shall go with them climb atop the wagon, and with a final look my way, they head down the hill and toward a waiting General Washington.

"Come, dearest," Rosalie says. "You need your rest. It has been a long night."

'Tis only when I feel the heavy woolen cloak Mrs. Clearwater wraps around me, and both women lead me into the house, that I realize I have stood in the darkness…for a long while.

"And yet, there are longer nights to come."

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**

 **FYI, for those of you who enjoyed my story, 'Begin Again,' I'll be posting a short sequel to it toward the end of the summer, entitled 'Begin Again...Again.' More info as well as a teaser can be found on my Facebook page. :)**

 **Have a great weekend!**


	27. Ch25 Incidents by Which Posterity Judges

A/N: It's a busy, busy summer!

But it's been good, so far. The fam and I had a nice vacay in the Caribbean. Then, my youngest and I spent a week in Orlando for her dance competitions, where she and her dance company performed very well. Now, I've got my eldest daughter away, which kind of makes it hard for me to focus and write, but I guess these are things we have to get used to, huh?

Anyway, thanks so much for keeping in touch these past weeks. Love hearing from you guys. :)

Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to either history or to me.

 **Chapter 25 – The Incidents and Letters by which Posterity Shall Judge**

* * *

15 August 1775

My dearest Isabella,

It has been over a month since I last laid eyes on you, my wife – over one month since I last touched you, loved you, and since I last heard your sweet voice. 'Tis not the first time in this short union of ours that we have been separated. Yet, oddly, time away from you grows harder to bear rather than easier.

Isabella, I miss you more than mere words shall ever convey. Regardless of the situation around me, nightly and fervently I pray you are well, and that our babe is warm and safe within you. With all which occurred before I left – nay, with all which I allowed to occur, I know not whether I still possess the right to pray for you. In either case, I beg the Lord that He does not see fit to repay me my failings as your husband through you or our child.

Nevertheless, my shame is insufficient to quell my prayers, for I do not cease requesting favors from Him. After I ask for your health and the health of our babe, I also beg the Lord that, despite what you were forced to do on my behalf, your father may look past it should you need him, since your husband is currently absent.

I am grieved, Isabella, by the rift I have caused between you and your father. 'Tis not because I hold the man in any regard. You are aware that the differences between his beliefs and mine are too significant for that. I am grieved because despite these differences, I do know he loves you and you love him.

I am well, my wife. Do not worry yourself over me. Your mind and body should be in as much ease and repose as the circumstances allow. Know that those plans we forged together before my departure worked well, and I reached my destination with little issue, about a fortnight after I left you. The cargo has been distributed where needed, though it has proven insufficient. Nonetheless, it has helped for now, at the very least, though more must needs be acquired.

We have set up at the home of a good friend of the illustrious gentleman with whom I traveled. In the past few weeks, this distinguished gentleman has taken full command in the area. Despite his softly-spoken and gently-bred demeanor, there is a way about the gentleman, which bespeaks authority and demands respect. Perhaps 'tis his height which intimidates…but nay, I do not believe so. His ability to influence goes beyond intimidation. He is possessed of an innate strength, which emanates from him and becomes apparent to almost everyone within moments of being in his presence. 'Twas a wise decision in choosing him to lead this endeavor, for I believe he shall serve well. Already he has made some decisions which appear fortuitous.

For example, when we arrived, Isabella, all here were running in different directions, much like chickens with no heads. Now, the gentleman of whom I speak has introduced organization and discipline where 'twas previously lacking. Moreover, half of those here have no training in the use of much of our equipment, and they have been utilizing said equipment in such a haphazard manner as to make it almost useless. The gentleman has appointed a few of us, who are more experienced, to instruct those less experienced in use of the equipment.

In addition, the gentleman in question has appointed leadership based on merit and seniority rather than on familial or friendly relations. He has commissioned apparel to differentiate between these various ranks, which he has reasonably explained assists with morale and respect. Aye, in case it is not plainly obvious, my wife, I am entirely in awe of the man.

About a fortnight ago, we were joined by another mutual friend of ours, a man I met while up north, whom I have mentioned to you. This man has a well-thought-out plan on how to gather assistance for our endeavor. We shall therefore soon embark on another expedition. I wish I could tell you more, but for obvious reasons, I cannot. However, I shall write to you from whatever corner of this Earth I find myself, as soon as may be.

This account, my love, is an accurate if necessarily vague narrative of much of what occurs around me. Nevertheless, I am fortunate enough to be married to a woman with a keen, sharp mind. You shall understand all which I do not explicitly relate; of that I am confident.

Neither shall I pretend this narrative is all which occurs. There are, of course, other events. These shall remain unmentioned to you, my wife, whether vaguely or overtly. Despite your superior intellect and despite my wish to unburden myself, there are sights, sounds, and scents I shall keep from you, for I have been negligent and reckless enough where you are concerned. A young woman of your gentle breeding and one in your tender condition need not have such images ingrained in her mind. Instead, I shall unburden myself of these things in my letter to Father.

In the rest of my letter to you, I shall dwell on all that which is good in our lives. I shall wonder how you look about now. I shall tell you I picture you every morn, noon, and evening, and in between every endeavor I undertake. In my mind's eye, I see you rounded with our child, and 'tis a lovely sight. When I shut my eyes, I feel my palm on your stomach, and I can almost truly feel my son or daughter quicken within you. I recall your radiant smile in the apple orchard on the morn you told me I would be a father. I shall also admit that my mind's eye recalls your appearance on the day I returned from up north. After you bathed and shaved me, I walked into our chambers to find the sun worshipping your unclothed form. Do you recall our lovemaking that morn, Isabella? I recall it. I recall it often.

Before you think me a complete swine, I shall tell you I also worry that you are not eating well. Before I left, your condition made it difficult for you to consume many of your past favorite foods. Is that still the case? Are you sleeping well and caring for yourself in the manner in which I wish I could care for you? Isabella, are there names you begin to prefer for our son or daughter? I shall tell you, if it is to be a girl, I would love for her to have your beautiful name. If it is a boy, I would not mind him carrying his father's name.

I know not when I shall return to you, Isabella. There are promises I wish I could make you, but I cannot; just as there are promises I have made you, which I fully intend to keep. I yearn to indeed touch your womb and feel the life we have created together quicken within you. I dream of waking at your side and watching once again as the sun worships you through our open windows. I hear your sweet laughter and your sharp tongue in my ear. I imagine losing myself in the warm cocoon of your perfect body.

Yet, we are merely at the beginning of this endeavor. Aye, there are moments when the struggle stretches out with no end in sight, and the temptation to return to you becomes so great I can barely breathe. In those moments, I care not for the judgment of others nor for how posterity may someday condemn me. Let them call me weak. Let them name me the coward who left the struggle to others. Perhaps, I shall be the one at whose feet shall be placed our loss; in those moments when my heart, mind, and body all ache for you as one, I care not.

But then…in those most desperate of moments, I ask myself one simple question: 'Could I someday look into our child's eyes and tell him or her that, whether we were victorious or unsuccessful, I left his or her future to others?'

So, you see, Isabella, why I cannot leave; not now. Not yet. I cannot abandon my duties, both for your sake and for that of our child.

You and the child within you are my life.

Your loving and faithful husband,

Edward Anthony Cullen.

…..

5 August 1775

Freehold Township, New Jersey Colony

Daughter:

I have not known what to say to you. 'Tis why, for almost one month now, I have avoided communication between us.

Often of late, I find myself recalling the day, now almost a half-year back, when then-Lieutenant Pitman rushed into the house to relay information he had just received regarding your abduction from our home by Mr. Cullen. The terror which filled my heart at that moment is one which I shall likely never forget. 'Tis a terror which I pray that you, who shall soon be a mother, shall never need feel. At that moment, and in the hours which followed, I was torn between reacting as a father would react and as a soldier in His Majesty's service would react. I often question the decisions I made on that accursed day.

Now, again, I am torn between reacting as a father and as a soldier. Nightly, as your father, I tell myself you did not know; you did not purposely lead me astray. I tell myself the facts as you gave them to me were the facts as you knew them or truly believed them. However, in the morn, as I first rise and dress to begin my day as a soldier, I admit to myself that which is likely the truth of the matter. 'Tis a truth I shall not set to paper, for I shall not have posterity uncover these words one day and name you anything other than Isabella Swan, loyal daughter of the Crown. Nonetheless, 'tis a truth which Captain Pitman has also agreed to keep to himself, for we know you were likely under undue influence.

Neither shall I waste time or words here attempting to gather from you the actual facts. Instead, I shall assure you that regardless of how infuriated I still find myself with you, you are my daughter, and you remain the person whom I hold most dear in this world.

Aye, my heart is heavy, Isabella, no less for your apparent disrespect toward me as for that toward all those values I once taught you to hold dear. I taught you respect, daughter, for those traditions which make us who we are. Of course, I realize you have been led astray by the company you now keep. However, that your heart and mind could be so completely turned away from your heritage and from those long-established institutions in favor of something tenuous at best and dangerous at worst is nigh on impossible for me to comprehend. You are an intelligent young woman of almost nineteen years, yet you have allowed your heart and mind to be polluted with lies, half-truths, and impossibilities regarding something nonexistent.

I pray you will see sense before you bring my grandchild into this world. Moreover, I beg you shall not allow an innocent mind and heart to be filled with the same nonsense with which yours has been filled. Remember who you are, Isabella. Recall who are our ancestors. We descend from Norman nobility, from those who first settled the Empire we now call England. That is the noble line from which your child shall descend, not from a band of lowly farmers with no rightful background, whom must, therefore, invent one.

Despite everything, I love you, my daughter, and I trust you shall see sense 'ere long. Soon, you shall be a parent yourself, and I am confident that, if nothing else, your responsibility for that child's upbringing and future shall solidify for you what is real…and what is not.

When you are ready to see reason, pray let me know, and we shall speak.

Your devoted father,

Major Charles Swan of His Majesty's Royal Army

…..

18 August 1775

Manhattan Island, New York Colony

Dearest Isabella:

Your letter of 4 August relayed the most joyful piece of news I have received in, well, in a long while. My sincerest congratulations, dearest, on the life which now grows inside you. I can only imagine how happy you and your farmer must be. With such quiet, droll lives you both must lead in the wilds of New Jersey, you must have had many opportunities to obey the Lord's commandment to 'go forth and multiply.' Or is it 'be fruitful and multiply?' And is it a commandment or a passage in the Bible? Regardless, my dear friend, I am thrilled for you.

Isabella, I shall live these next few months vicariously through you, for the happiness which you must currently feel is one that, in all honesty, I cannot envision for myself. At the very least, I cannot imagine such joy entering my life at any point soon. Although I am sure my husband, as an officer in His Royal Majesty's Army, has much more critical endeavors with which to contend than does yours, as a farmer, 'tis not for lack of trying we have not been fruitful. In fact, my dear John made quite a few valiant attempts to plant his seed within me before he left for up north recently. Not even my attempts to sleep through his ministrations deterred him from his husbandly duty. Alas, 'twas not to be, as my monthly courses arrived just this morn. Ah, well. I shall not fret, and do not you pity me too much, Isabella. Having John for a husband more than makes up for all else.

Either way, perhaps 'tis not so unfortunate that I shall not be birthing the next generation of Andrés any time soon. I have never been the type of woman who wishes for posterity to judge her based on the number of children she birthed. Moreover, with conditions here in New York Colony being what they are, 'tis not the best of times to introduce a new soul into the island. One does not know from one day to the next whether we shall wake to Patriots or Loyalists in charge. The warships continue their encouraging presence in our harbor, and now, they are joined by prison ships. Who would not wish to wake to such sights?

Meanwhile, our colonists vacillate between loyalty to an established Crown or commitment to a fledgling country. Consider the following: a few weeks past, New York elected a Provincial Congress, which was supposedly comprised of those dastardly Patriots for the purpose of recruiting and supplying the colony's militia in this land's endeavor toward what they deem freedom but our royal leaders assure us is foolhardiness. Early last month, this congress sent delegates to greet the rebels' new commander, a General George Washington, of whom you may have heard. General Washington was marching through town on his way to lend assistance in the rebels' traitorous siege of Boston.

However, on the same day, and one might say almost in the next breath, this Congress also sent delegates to greet our Royal Governor, William Tyron, upon his return from England! Have you ever heard anything quite as entertaining? 'Tis almost as if they are determined not to show a preference for one side over the other. If one were a Patriot, one might wonder if this Congress merited his or her trust. I would certainly not trust this Congress to act on my behalf if I were a Patriot, for it apparently cannot or shall not choose a side. In fact, if I were a Patriot, I would warn all other patriots against trusting this Congress should they find themselves in New York any time soon. But, as I am not a Patriot, I shall provide them with no warnings.

Speaking of Boston, before John left for places far, far up north, he was quite agitated one evening. This occurred about a fortnight ago, while he and his fellow officers discussed those events happening in Boston. I paid no mind as I performed my wifely duty and served him and his fellow officers a goodly amount of the best port available in these difficult times. All the while, they complained of some nonsense or other regarding additional militiamen and weaponry, which had reached Boston along with this General Washington, he whom I earlier mentioned. While, thank the Lord almighty, these men and weaponry have been insufficient to allow the rebels to enter Boston and rid it of our army, it has apparently given the rebels a boost in morale if little else.

There are rumors that a portion of these militiamen hails from New Jersey, the very colony you now call home. What is more, 'twas also whispered that these men were prisoners in one of these New Jersey towns, prisoners who were freed by the actions of a handful of young Patriots. 'Tis unfortunate that the names and identities of these Patriots appear to be unknown, for 'twould have been diverting information, do you not think?

Do you know what else is diverting, Isabella? 'Tis diverting that these Patriots are sometimes not as careful with their plans as one would think they should be if they truly want to be victorious in their cause, or if at the very least, they would like to keep their heads. For example, they have made it quite clear that they seek help for their endeavor from the previously-French but now British colonies up north. They prepare pamphlets for them and send in delegates to speak to them. Therefore, brave officers like my dear husband, John, now embark on their own expedition to prevent such from occurring. How I shall miss my John while he is gone.

Pray, take prodigious care of yourself and the tiny being within you, my dear friend. When I say you are the brightest star in my life, Isabella, I do not exaggerate. Write again soon.

Your true friend,

Mrs. Mary Alice André.

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **A little side info:**

 **Edward writes to Isabella from Cambridge, Massachusetts, during the 'Siege of Boston,' although he doesn't name it specifically. The home in which he is staying is that of Benjamin Wadsworth, the first President of Harvard. The 'gentleman' of whom Edward continually speaks is, of course, George Washington. The friend whom he mentions later as having now joined them is…Benedict Arnold, who arrived in Cambridge, Mass. to recruit for an expedition up to Quebec. Edward, Benedict, Emmett, Jacob, Jasper and about 1,100 more men will now embark on a journey up to Quebec, Canada Province, in an attempt to invade British-controlled Quebec and thereby bring those colonies into the fight against Great Britain. Yes, during the American Revolution, the patriots actually invaded Canada in late 1775. However, as Alice warns Bella, the English were well aware of this plan. Will the Patriot Rebels succeed?**

 **We shall see.**

 **I wanted to include Bella's replies to these various letters, but time is short today, and I figured I'd at least post these. I'll try to have the rest of the chapter/next chapter up later this week. :)**

 **Take care!**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**


	28. Ch 28 - Incident with the Postal Service

**A/N: Happy Friday!**

 **Thank you all SO MUCH for your wonderful thoughts. I apologize I haven't been able to get back to you guys, but it's been hectic. I've found myself having to pick between replying to your wonderful thoughts…or writing the next bit to the story. :(**

 **A very quick update here, just cuz I promised. Gave it a quick look-over, so forgive any glaring errors. :)**

 **I'll try to update again soon. Have a great weekend!**

 **Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to either me or history.**

* * *

 **Chapter 26 – The Incident with the Postal Service**

"Isabella, the post rider is here. Isabella?"

As Rosalie hastily calls for me, I sit at the writing desk in the study and perform one final, brisk scan of the letter in hand – a letter which I began penning before I received Alice's missive two days ago. It had only wanted for my signature, which I had withheld 'til morning in case I thought of something to add.

"Isabella?"

My father-in-law has apparently joined in the search for me.

"I am coming!"

I use my forefinger to quickly rush through those words I wrote before receiving Alice's missive.

 _16 August 1775_

 _My dear Edward…The babe and I are well…pray for you as well…long for you…make love to me…in my dreams and sometimes when awake…no reason for shame…did what was necessary to assist those whom needed…willing to risk much to allow me the opportunity to safeguard my father…that is how I see it, and how can that make you less than a good man, husband, and soon-to-be-father?…not one to sit idle, as you well know…babe quickened…wish you would have felt him…gentleman of whom you speak does sound awe-inspiring…must also be in awe of you, dear, brave husband...share with your father and not with me…imagining those things you attempt to keep from me makes it worse…aye, focus on the good…nay, we shall not name the babe after you nor I; he or she shall have its own identity…perhaps something of its ancestors…you and the child within me are my life as well…I pray God be with you in all your endeavors…_

The heavy, wooden doors to the study are suddenly pushed open. As Rosalie and my father-in-law enter the room, I look up from my letter.

"Dearest." Rosalie's calm tone belies the anxiety I know she feels for her husband, as I do for mine. "I know you have much to say to your husband, but we must deliver the letters to the post rider."

"I know, I know." I rush forward, holding out the letter to Rosalie.

"Rosalie, pray give this a quick read. Begin after ' _I understand why you cannot bring yourself home; I cannot like it, but I understand.'_

Rosalie takes the letter, and I watch her eyes roam over it.

"Read aloud, so that Papa Carlisle may comment if I have excluded or misconstrued anything pertinent."

She glances up to me. "Very well."

My father-in-law offers me a soft smile.

Rosalie begins.

 _19 August 1775_

 _Edward, much has occurred since I received your letter two days ago. I shall begin by informing you that you no longer need be vague nor circumspect in your letters. About a week ago, your father returned home from the New Jersey Provincial Congress in Trenton. Much was discussed and planned, of which he informs you in his letter, and with which I shall not waste time here._

 _Moreover, one of the key items acknowledged is a decision by your Patriots' Second Continental Congress, which met in Philadelphia this summer to plan for the defense of these colonies. Among other things, this Congress found that the trustworthy conveyance of letters and intelligence between colonies is essential to their common cause, and therefore, the Crown's Imperial Postal Service can no longer be depended on to be the carrier of those Patriot missives on which so much rests. The Crown's Imperial Postal Service has therefore been overthrown in favor of a newly-established United Postal Department._

 _Further, Congress has selected Mister Benjamin Franklin as Postmaster General. Your father assures me you have heard of the gentleman. He is experienced with the duty, having served as Postmaster General of the Imperial Postal Service, and in that capacity, greatly expanded postal service throughout the colonies. Of course, when two years ago, he used his position to leak and disseminate the private letters between Parliament and then-Boston-Governor Thomas Hutchinson, Mr. Franklin was accused of performing actions sympathetic to the Cause of the colonies, and he was dismissed._

 _Nonetheless, Congress has moved swiftly. Postmasters have been chosen in each colony, and each postmaster has been charged with hiring only the most reputable and patriotic post riders. These post riders shall be made to swear to secure their mail under lock and key._

 _In a display of the value of this new United Postal Department, notice of these findings was sent to each Provincial Congress by rider. When your father returned home from the Provincial Congress, a handful of these riders returned home with him and were set up nearby._

 _In the past forty-eight hours, the riders' presence has become even more fortuitous as I have received a letter from Alice with her form of information dissemination – information which your father, Rosalie, and I believe to be of great urgency for your Cause, and most importantly, at least to me, for your well-being, my husband._

 _Without further delay, I shall tell you Alice writes that her husband, John_ _André,_ _and a number of Royal officers and soldiers have been dispatched to the north, to the Province of Quebec, which is where we believe you shall be headed, if you have not already left. They are aware, my husband, that you and your fellow patriots mean to invade Quebec and thereby turn its citizenship to your side in this conflict._

 _What you shall do with this forewarning, I know not; though, knowing you as I do, I doubt it shall stop you. Perhaps, however, you shall find another way to do what you must._

 _I have nothing more to say, no more to add to this except God protect you, my husband as well as the husbands, fathers, and brothers who venture forth with you in this endeavor._

 _Wait. One more thing I do add; though I know 'tis not what you would wish for me to write...or even to consider, but when has such a thing stopped me?_

 _Edward, if the Lord be not on your side of this Cause, I pray He takes into account that honor which be in your heart, and which leads you to pursue freedom and liberty for you and yours. I beg He sees that you and the rest of your brotherhood and sisterhood take up this Cause not for the glory but for true conviction of its rightness. And more than anything, my husband, my great love, I pray 'tis sufficient to bring you home safely to me and to your child, one way or the other._

 _Write when you can._

 _Your loving wife,_

 _Isabella Cullen._

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**

 **'See' you soon. :)**


	29. Ch 26: The Incident on the way to Battle

**A/N: It's been a while for this story. I know. But, a bit of inspiration hit me this morning, which has been the problem. I know a lot of you have asked, and I'm so grateful you've remained interested. Unfortunately, it's hard to write historical fiction unless you really feel inspired toward it.**

 **Anyway, it's a short update, but I hope you guys enjoy it. I'll try to update a bit more regularly from here on in. :)**

 **Most characters belong to S. Meyer or to history. Some belong to me. All mistakes are mine.**

 **Chapter 26 – The Incident on the Way to the Battle of Quebec**

* * *

16 January 1776

My dearest Isabella:

It has been…a long while, wife, since I have been able to set quill to paper, longer still since I last set eyes on your beautiful face, since I last heard your melodic voice, since one of your witty and intelligent remarks were directed toward me.

One evening, almost a year ago now, I espied a woman at an assembly, a woman whom for all intents and purposes, should have been my enemy. 'Twould have been a tragedy indeed had you and I continued on vastly differing courses, my wife, for you are one of if not the most intelligent creature I have ever beheld. You would have been a fearsome enemy indeed, a dangerous adversary to our Cause, and I mean that with all the respect and pride I have in you.

I have been remiss, neglectful, unpardonable in my abandonment of you and in leaving you without news of me for so long. Before I offer excuses, please know that I am aware they shall always be insufficient, for a man's duty to his wife, especially to one in your condition, should always be first and foremost. Yet, I know not how to perform that duty without performing this one first. And aye, I am aware I contradict myself, and for that and many more reasons, I have been undeserving of you since the beginning of our union.

Please know 'tis not because I have forgotten you for one second in the almost six months since we separated, nor in the almost four months since I was last able to write you, but rather because I have been leading the life of a wild beast. I have become a true animal, Isabella, existing in unknown, unmarked territories of our vast land, trekking through swamps, bogs, and forests. I have subsisted on creatures I never thought I should eat, laid my head on surfaces I never thought to lay, washed only by the damnable rains which turn into mud and threatened to swallow us. A woolly beast you named me once, and aye, the name fits more so than ever. Nonetheless, I have survived it all by the grace of God and with thoughts of you, some of which I am proud and some of which have been as debased and beastly as I have become.

The events which have transpired since I last saw you, since I left the relative safety of our home, the warmth of your arms are events I do not ever want to share with you, yet becoming more aware with every passing day of the type of selfish man I am, I shall share them. I shall unburden myself by burdening you or I shall expire, my wife, because the images burned in my mind are of such things-

Such things as shall never leave me, yet they have gotten us nowhere useful.

Have you believed me dead these last months, Isabella? Has Rosalie believed her husband dead as well? We have not been dead, as you can read now, and as Rosalie is likely reading as well from her husband. We have been close to death, however: sickness, dysentery, starvation; these have been our constant companions. We are unrecognizable.

After receiving your correspondence regarding John Andre's knowledge of our army's plan to take Quebec, yet their lack of knowledge as for when we planned such an endeavor, General Washington, Colonel Arnold, myself, and a few other men congressed and decided on a trek to Quebec from Massachusetts. This we would take through backroads which should have led us there in twenty days and one hundred and eighty miles. In twenty days from the inception of our trip, we were to reach the British-controlled city, win its control, and thereby convince its French-Canadian populace to join our endeavor at the overthrow of these bloody Lobsterbacks. Yet, for some reason, from its very inception, God did not smile down on our mission.

The trek, Isabella, took us through three hundred and sixty miles of wilderness and nigh on three months of travel. We left Massachusetts Colony in mid-September, the last time I wrote you, with eleven hundred men and reached the St. Lawrence on November the ninth, with six hundred men after the death of two hundred and the abandonment of three hundred.

More and more I am convinced that Colonel Arnold was gravely deceived by the provider of our maps. They were grievously misleading, Isabella; inaccurate regarding routes, distances and all manner of geographical features. Trails which should have been easily navigable were unpassable. Waterways abounded in areas unaccounted for. We were forced to portage our boats overland, and these same boats proved badly constructed, as they leaked and dampened us, damaged our supplies, and rotted our food. All this misery was compounded by Nature itself as cold, heavy rains and finally, snow set in and rarely diminished.

Worse yet, wife, we arrived to news that one of Colonel Arnold's couriers, who was sent ahead, was captured, and therefore, the British knew of our impending approach. With our element of surprise completely eradicated, we had no choice but to invade as swiftly as possible. With our men tired, hungry, and disillusioned did we march on Quebec City less than a week after our arrival.

'Twas a veritable disaster, my wife. The city was defended by men of the _Royal Highland Emigrants_ , a regiment of foot raised by the British from Scottish soldiers who served in the Seven Years' War. They are one of the oldest and most experienced Officers' Corp in the Americas. We demanded their surrender, but with absolutely no cannons, field artillery, and with our men barely fit for action, they scoffed at our demand, and rightly so. Therefore, on November the nineteenth, with no other actionable choice, Arnold decided we should retreat to _Point-aux-Trembles_ , just west of Quebec, and await the reinforcements which were to come with General Richard Montgomery, which had recently successfully captured the city of Montreal and turned its populace to our side.

Montgomery arrived on December the third, at which point we began a siege on Quebec and a true assault early yesterday, on the last day of the Lord's year of Seventeen-seventy-five - December the thirty-first, and in the middle of a snowstorm.

This battle began rather auspiciously, all things considered. With a fortnight's rest, our men were strong. But then General Montgomery was hit by grapeshot and killed instantly. Isabella, his death led to instant chaos. The men panicked and began an unauthorized retreat. In the midst of this disorganized retreat, Arnold was badly wounded in the leg. Emmett and I were barely able to escape with our lives as we carried him away from the carnage and out of the city's defensive walls.

We have lost the battle, my wife. As I write this, Arnold refuses to surrender, but it is lost. His leg is in extremely bad condition, and he has written to Congress for reinforcements, but they are yet to arrive. In the meanwhile, Arnold has ordered Emmett and me back to Massachusetts, with leave to stop in Freehold until-

Jasper and Jacob shall remain with him. We shall depart in the morning and-

And so, there you have a vague summary of the events of the past few months. My soul is wretched, Isabella, for this loss of our first major battle as a Continental Army. Is God not on our side in this endeavor? Are we to remain British second-tier subjects forever? Is that His wish?

And here…here damned coward that I am, I finally, finally must ask, my wife. Have you birthed our child? Not only have I abandoned you, but I am too cowardly to open this letter with that which has plagued my thoughts for months, with that which is first and foremost on my mind with my every breath: Lord above, are you well, Isabella? I am terrified of the reply. I am almost panic-stricken by the thought of returning home and finding you…finding you unwell.

I have been granted leave to remain with you until our child is born if it has not come yet, and for a fortnight afterward. But my one true fear in the entire world is to return and find that the same God who is apparently not on our side has punished my conceit, my ego, my hubristic assumption that I am on the correct side of this conflict by harming you.

And here is my biggest fear of all: that you have died in childbirth.

So now, Isabella, you will learn the depths of the despair to which I have fallen, the depravity my soul endures by not seeing you for these almost six months. You will hate me for this, perhaps never forgive me as I shall likely hate and never forgive myself for my weakness in being unable to stop myself from setting such blasphemous thoughts to paper, but let Him take our child if he must. Not you. Nay, not you, my dear wife, for I could not bear it. He should have as soon allowed me to die these past months in the wilderness of the north or in the doomed battle for Quebec.

But perhaps returning to an empty house shall be my punishment for being on the wrong side of this conflict, for taking a young woman and poisoning her mind toward that same wrong side, for forcing her to betray king, father, and country, her original beliefs, for allowing her to act as a go-between for information, and for affronting Him by presuming our child should be an American citizen rather than a British subject.

Aye, I am wretched, and I am a beast, but I am a beast who once knew love and 'twas due to you. I long to hold you safely in my arms, yet I am too afraid to also dare hope that I may hold our child in my arms upon my return. And so, if 'tis too much of a request to hold both, I choose you.

Nonetheless, if all goes well, and if you do not run me through upon my arrival for penning you such a grievous letter, I shall be in your arms again in less than three weeks.

Understand that you are my life, and I love you. I pray you forgive me someday for writing such an ungodly letter. And if you do not forgive me, I pray you are alive and therefore able to abhor me to your heart's content upon my return to you.

Your loving husband,

Edward Anthony Cullen

Captain, First Continental Army of the United States of America

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

 **Facebook: Stories by PattyRose**

 **Twitter: PattyRosa817**

 **It's been a while, yes. For a couple of quick refreshers on the Revolution as it relates to Edward and Bella of this story, you might want to re-read the short "history lessons" I've provided in this story. Or just hit me up, and I'll try to help. :)**

" **See" you soon.**


	30. Ch 27 - The Incident in the Snow

**A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts.**

 **In honor of Memorial Day, I'm updating this story, which is once again "talking" to me.**

 **To those of you who've served or whose loved ones have served, thank you so, so much for your service. 3**

 **Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to history. Some belong to me. All mistakes are mine.**

* * *

 **Chapter 27 – The Incident in the Snow**

 _Cullen Hill House  
_

 _10 August 1775_

 _Dear Father:_

 _I apologize in advance for the length of my letter, that it shall be even briefer than was yours to me._

 _There is not much I may say other than what I did, I did for family. Not merely for those who have become my family since my marriage to Edward Cullen, but for those who have been my family since birth. Father, I was born your daughter, and your daughter I shall always be. Yet, you and Mother chose to have me here, and as I am your daughter by the salient fact I was born to you, I am American by the salient fact I was born to this land. So shall the babe in my womb be American…as it shall be your family by birthright._

 _In your letter, you bade me reach out to you when I am ready to see reason. I see reason, Father. Matters would not have ended well any other way, and so to protect all, no choice had I. Neither can I regret, for in my heart I do believe I chose the correct course. Nonetheless, it pains me more than words can say that we are now merely miles apart in distance yet worlds apart on all else, most especially when I know what we both desire is the same: the health and happiness of our families. Therefore, though I cannot apologize, I do pray that you are able to forgive me someday._

 _Your loving daughter,_

 _Isabella Swan Cullen_

OOOOO

6 February 1776 – Cullen Hill House

It has been a prodigiously cold beginning to the year. Snow has continuously covered the ground for the past fortnight and fallen intermittently for the sennight prior. This morn, as the muted winter sun rises over Cullen Hill, a new quilt of ivory envelops every tree, creature, and outbuilding in our property and its surroundings in its milky purity. As I lean against my chamber windows, the entire prospect lends a quixotic sort of serenity to the view I am afforded. In days past, such unspoiled scenery would have me wonder if I was in some Utopia, if not in Heaven itself.

As of late, however, the world around me is anything but Utopian. In any case, Heaven shall not exist for me until…well, rapaciously enough, I require more than one event to transpire before I shall believe myself near Heaven.

As if I have uttered the thought aloud, one of those events I await makes its existence if not necessarily its overdue presence known in the form of an exceedingly spirited and, if I may say, somewhat violent kick to my stomach.

"My love, have a care with your poor mama."

My tone entirely contradicts the rebuke. Moreover, as if that is insufficient proof for my unborn child of just how completely under its spell I be, I laugh as I simultaneously hiss through the pain, stroking the small being within me, soothing _it_ as best as I am able through the layer of skin between us, as if _I_ am not the one who has just been injured.

"Poor thing, I understand how you must feel, confined in there for so long, for I be decidedly confined as well, and I with plenty of room and equal desire to kick."

The next kick steals my very breath. I splay a palm against the frosty window to support myself. When I look down, the imprint of a minuscule foot is clearly visible through the thin material of my shift and upon the swell of my stomach.

"My darling, consider that your mama's stomach is sore from months of your hale pounding, for even unborn you have already proven yourself as strong and as…as tardy as your father."

And here, a series of uneven sighs escape me. Before the fears now running maddeningly rampant in my head reduce me to a puddle of despondent uselessness, I draw in a breath, which I have finally been granted by my babe, and I straighten my spine as well as I may these days, which is not very straight at all.

"Very well. Let us get dressed and quit this room. Perhaps today shall be the day…"

I do not finish that thought; at least, not aloud, for again, nowadays there are many endings for such a phrase. Instead, with yet another sigh – for I have become a dramatic one, indeed – I turn my body and my mind to the matters of the day even if these days, the body refuses to move as swiftly as the mind.

Nonetheless, my home needs tending, and with Papa Carlisle gone to Trenton this past fortnight to attend the New Jersey Provincial Congress' first session of the year, and…and with my husband gone for much, much longer, the duty falls to me, Cullen Hill House's mistress.

Seth and Davy should be returned this morn with news of the state of affairs in Freehold. In the past months, I have noted that Freehold Township and its remaining residents are as centralized in their beliefs as the town is centralized mid-Jersey Colony. Those in town truly loyal to the crown have, for the most part, abandoned it for places closer to loyalist New York Colony or to return to the gray shores of the mother country. Meanwhile, those wholeheartedly patriotic are either fighting for their Cause – as is my husband – or have departed Freehold Township for parts freely open in their rebellion.

Ergo, those who remain in town cannot decide on one position; Freehold Township flips its loyalties with the shift of weather. Father, therefore, has had his hands full these months – or so I have learned second-hand. Perhaps…perhaps one of those events I await shall transpire this morning, and I shall finally receive direct word from him.

Yet, regardless of how much I miss my father, there are more pressing issues at hand. The smoke house requires a visit to ensure the bitter winds have not doused the fire overnight, and the salted meats are being properly smoked and dried. So too the livestock must needs be checked in this frightfully frigid weather. As I waddle like a duckling to the water basin atop my husband's and my dresser, the thought of my sweet mare, Hope, sleeping in the arctic-like stables causes me to shiver more than does the cold. Davy, our young hand, reassures me she be safe and warm, but 'twas merely up to me, I should have brought her into the house weeks ago. As I clean my face and mouth in the wash basin, I recall the scene that occurred one evening some weeks earlier, before Papa Carlisle departed.

 _We occupants of Cullen Hill House sat warmly by the fire in the great room, each occupied in our own endeavors while snow fell outdoors. Rosalie sewed a lovely infant's gown from one of my ivory dresses, which had ceased fitting me months earlier. In the meanwhile, Leah knitted a minuscule set of boots while guiding me in the knitting of a matching cap. Mrs. Clearwater busied herself with ensuring everyone's comfort._

" _Hear this part," Papa Carlisle said, as he had been engrossed in reading a new pamphlet he had recently received from one of his fellow congressmen by post mail, for the better part of an hour. We all stopped what we were doing to listen:_

"' _These are the times that try men's souls,_ '" _read he._ "' _The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman._ '"

 _We were all silent for a handful of minutes, surely all lost in thoughts of our own patriots, who refused to shrink from service of their country…and from whom we had not heard in months._

" _And here be more," Papa Carlisle said before reading us another passage: "'Common sense will tell us, that the power which hath endeavored to subdue us, is of all others, the most improper to defend us.'" He set down the pamphlet with feeling. "Is that not just so plainly-said as to be self-evident?"_

" _What is it you read, Papa Carlisle?" inquired I._

 _Papa Carlisle set down his reading material and met my gaze. "My dear Isabella, 'tis a pamphlet called 'Common Sense,' which has just recently been published and released in Philadelphia by a gentleman by the name of Thomas Paine. Though he be an Englishman and only living here in our colonies these two years past, he advocates independence from the crown better than some colonial-born. I find it the most riveting material. I am also impressed…and grateful, for I have been told he plans to donate all proceeds from sales of his pamphlets to buying mitts for those soldiers of ours fighting in Quebec."_

 _Silence._

" _I would like to read the pamphlet when you are done, Carlisle," said Rosalie._

" _As would I," said Katrina McCarty._

" _Of course, of course." Like his son, and unlike my father, Papa Carlisle was not one of those men who believed women should not read the pamphlets. "This pamphlet should be required reading for all patriots. I dare say it shall be 'ere long."_

 _As they spoke further on the subject, my gaze panned to the windows and to the darkness outdoors only broken by the glow of the crisp snow. These days, my condition had me so overemotional I was unable to think too long on the subject at hand without risking screams, tears, or an embarrassing combination of both._

" _I wonder at the possibility of allowing Hope within the house until this snow lets up," I suddenly mused._

 _Their discussion ceased. Papa Carlisle was the first to respond to my inquiry. Furthermore, his reply made me believe he understood me at least somewhat._

" _Isabella, you are my daughter-in-law and mistress of these lands, but horses in the house?"_

" _Not horses, Papa Carlisle; just one horse."_

" _Ahh, I see the difference," sent up he in turn. "Yet, be that as it may, I shall cast my vote as nay," chuckled he teasingly, for a gentleman he may be, yet ever the politician._

" _Isabella, dearest," Rosalie had laughed, "I know you love your mare, and I hold her in affection as well. But do trust me, my love. Once the babe arrives, you shall be grateful I swore to drag your horse and her large, manure-filled behind back to the stables myself should she step hoof in this house. Nay."_

" _Nay say you, Rosalie. Dear friend you are. Were my friend Alice here, she would have voted with me in a moment."_

" _As much as I appreciate your friend Alice's clandestine assistance in our…more political endeavors, from the tone of her letters, she strikes me as being as spoiled a Tory woman as you at times still be."_

 _Leah gasped at such a speech, but I merely smiled, for the friendship between Rosalie Hale and I had grown way beyond indignation at such mockery. Moreover, the tender smile she gave me completely negated her rebuke._

 _Therefore, I shrugged my shoulders at her accusation – for perhaps 'twas somewhat true at times – and nodding magnanimously, I turned to the dear housekeeper. She wrapped a quilt about my shoulders and ensured it covered my distended midsection as well._

" _And what say you, Mrs. Clearwater?"_

" _Oh, my darling mistress!" Mrs. Clearwater proclaimed in a fright. "I know you be at that stage in your confinement where you wish to nurture the entire world, but we must set limits on the size of four-legged creatures within the main house, no matter how gentle they be! Nay!"_

" _Yet another nay. What say you, Leah," said I, "shall we even the score?"_

" _Isabella," said she, still shy in using my name rather than my title as I had bid her do, for I considered her friend, "I do find I enjoy your whims-"_

'' _Tis a novel point of view, yet I thank you, Leah." However, I grinned too hastily, for Leah was not finished._

" _Nonetheless," she continued, "with the babe coming any day, I should never forgive myself if I did not speak out against this one. Therefore…nay," said she timidly._

 _With an internal sigh, I turned to my most disagreeable houseguest, who swiftly opined with no such reserve._

" _What strange whims have you, Isabella," Katrina scoffed. "Firstly, we were speaking of more important matters than your horse. Secondly, to suggest bringing such a creature into the main house simply due to a bit of snow, as if the beast had not sufficient hair to keep itself warm." She shook her head. "Were Edward here-"_

" _Firstly, Katrina McCarty, the importance of my horse in relation to your discussion is entirely subjective. Secondly, were my husband here," said I, "he would bow to my whim, as he always does."_

 _While her nostrils flared, I considered how what I said 'twas not entirely true. Aye, my husband and I had brokered words fiercely more than once in our short union, when he would not be swayed by my arguments, most especially if he believed the result had potential to harm me…or our unborn child. One time had he allowed himself to be swayed by my arguments toward such a whim, which helped free his men, whom my father held prisoners. As a result, the last time I saw my husband as he rode away from me, his shoulders were weighed by the guilt at having allowed such a thing. Yet, before I could excuse myself for my puerile retort, Katrina dared further._

" _Were_ _ **I**_ _mistress of this house-"_

" _Yet, mistress of this house you are_ _ **not**_ _," retorted I with such vehemence that the rest of the occupiers of the room literally recoiled. After a handful of seconds, still incensed, continued I with little more sense and composure._

" _Nonetheless, with he not here, I shall speak for the both of us, as is my lawful and God-given right as his wife and mistress of our lands. Furthermore, though I spoke in jest, I did not phrase my 'whim' as a request for a vote, for though democracy be what is sought beyond this hill, 'tis not in effect in this household. Therefore,_ _ **I**_ _have decided that Hope shall remain in the stables," I held Katrina McCarty's abhorrence-filled gaze, "until_ _ **I**_ _decide she shall not."_

' _Twas quite badly done, aye, for I should never want the rest to believe my rebuke was meant for them. What is more, recalling both my place as well as the pained look of guilt 'cross my husband's handsome mien as he rode away from me all those months earlier, my foolish fit seemed even more childish._

 _Nonetheless, I did internally pat myself on the back for biting my tongue against at least one part of my sharp retort, which would have been something regarding Cullen Hill House having sufficient room to house more than one hairy beast._

 _Papa Carlisle's whiskers twitched before he hid behind his pamphlet once again._

" _As is your right as mistress, just as you said, dear daughter-in-law."_

" _Aye, as is your right, Isabella," said Rosalie as she resumed her sewing._

" _Of course, Mistress. You – and only you – are our mistress. Come along, Leah; I need your help in the kitchen," said Mrs. Clearwater as she verily dragged poor Leah out of the room._

 _When Katrina gathered her skirts and whooshed out of the room, a tentative peace survived another day – unlike in the world beyond our New Jersey Colony hill._

" _I apologize most heartily," I murmured shamefully to those remaining in the room. "Of course, I did not mean to disrespect Mr. Paine nor his views. 'Twas simply a game which went awry due to my impatience with Katrina McCarty."_

" _Your impatience, my dear, is with much more significant matters than Katrina's ridiculous and envy-filled comments – and 'tis understandable," said Rosalie, her tone full of compassion which merely made me feel worse._

" _Aye. What is more, I should already be accustomed to her tongue. Therefore, I shall apologize once again-"_

 _Papa Carlisle halted my apology with a hand up. "Isabella, there is no need. You are a fine, decisive mistress, a wonderful wife to my son…and you shall soon be a great mother to my grandchild. When…when Edward returns, he shall be exceedingly proud of all you have done these months. You need not accept rebuke from those with no right to give it."_

' _Aye, she is my sister-in-law, and I apologize for her, Isabella, for the woman baits you at every turn. I shall be sure to inform her father and her brother upon their return."_

" _Eagerly do I await the day when my husband and your husband and father-in-law return, for 'tis true; these days, I have patience enough left for only one…perhaps two individuals in this world."_

 _With Katrina gone from the room, we shared pleasant conversation for the rest of the evening, though none of us again touched on that subject which consumed our thoughts. For despite having received no word from my husband in months, I knew he was still in this world. I felt him as surely as I felt our babe kicking within me._

OOOOO

Papa Carlisle warily departed the next morn for Trenton, though from my newly imposed confinement in my chambers, I assured him all would be well in his absence. He left sufficient men and weaponry behind to guard us and the house, and strict instructions that I should leave the running of household matters to Mrs. Clearwater, and to Rosalie when she was not away assisting women in labor. I was to submit to my confinement without further issue.

Instructions which I fully meant to follow, truly I did. But the babe is late in coming, and the house needs its mistress.

After I clean my mouth and face, I shuffle to our closet with my hands supporting my heavy stomach lest I tumble forward. There, I retrieve one of my warmer, homespun gowns. 'Tis a dark blue frock with absolutely no ornaments, and with only the minimal white, cotton trimmings at the neckline for a bit of flourish.

Rosalie gifted me the raw materials in mid-September to mark the occasion of my nineteenth year upon this Earth. As I fasten it around my shift, I smile to myself at the memory of my receipt, for I admit I was not the most appreciative creature.

" _What be this, a woolen blanket?" I enquired after carefully unwrapping the brown paper in which it came and holding up the swath of wool._

"' _Tis material for a new gown."_

" _For whom?"_

" _For you."_

" _But I have gowns."_

" _All of which be too tight already and will only get tighter. As it is, poor Seth and Davey no longer know where to look when they are receiving instruction from you."_

" _But…but this be homespun wool."_

" _I am aware," Rosalie smiled._

 _Katrina, who sat apart from us all the way in a corner in our smaller parlor, snorted._

" _True patriot women do not buy silk from the loyalist town merchants. We make our own clothing, and if Edward were here-"_

" _She is correct, Isabella," said Rosalie, her eyes remaining on me. "If Edward were here, he would have covered you in potato sacks long ago, for he would not want anyone's eyes upon his beautiful wife's body in full bloom – some parts more in bloom than others," she chuckled, eyeing my bosom._

 _Katrina said no more._

With a shake of my head, I rid myself of all thoughts of Katrina. Then, with a breath of determination, I open my chamber doors and step out. The air in the hallways is so wintry it stiffens my limbs as I descend the creaking steps. Nonsensically yet instinctively, I stroke my stomach to warm my babe, though perhaps 'tis too comfortable within, and that be the problem. Either way, slowly, rigidly and silently, I reach the landing.

"Mistress?"

"Hell and damnation," I hiss under my breath as I pinch my eyes shut.

"Mistress, why in heaven's name be you from your confinement?"

"Isabella?" I hear from above steps.

"Damnation," I growl.

"Isabella, where do you go?" Rosalie inquires. When I look up, she is watching me, her hands on her hips.

"I am preparing for the mistress of the house's duties of the day." I say this as evenly and nonchalantly as possible.

"Did you give birth overnight?"

"Nay."

"Nay. Then I am confused."

"Rosalie," I snap, "I cannot remain confined to my bedroom one day longer."

"You do realize that is the very definition of confinement, do you not? You must remain in bed until the babe arrives, which could be at any moment."

"You have been telling me that for above a month now," I say, cradling my stomach and my babe, whom in my excitement, is now kicking wildly.

"Because your babe is quite overdue."

"Are you entirely sure you did not miscalculate?"

"Isabella, if I miscalculated, and you are not, in fact, overdue, then you became with child while your husband was away." She quirks an eyebrow.

"Obviously," I scowl up at her, "you did not miscalculate. But I _am_ done with confinement."

"Usually, one is not done with confinement until the babe has arrived."

"I care not a whit for what is usual."

" _That_ has been apparent since the very beginning. Very well. You shall not remain confined."

While I grin in triumph, poor Mrs. Clearwater verily suffers a conniption a few feet away.

"But Mrs. McCarty, that cannot be allowed! My mistress be ready to birth at any moment. She must remain in confinement until-"

"Mrs. Clearwater, when has allowing or not allowing your mistress anything ever worked?"

Mrs. Clearwater falls silent.

OOOOO

"Is this heavy cloak truly necessary?" complain I as Rosalie and I make our way down the hill, slowly and carefully, heading first for the smokehouse. 'Tis so hindering, and truly I am not even so cold. My babe keeps me warm."

"It is quite necessary, for whether you feel the frigidness or not, Isabella, 'tis quite, quite cold this morn. And should you attempt to remove it, Mrs. Clearwater will lurch from the house and tie it around you with rope. She watches you even now. Look."

I turn and look over my shoulder, and indeed, Mrs. Clearwater is at the window, wringing her hands, her forehead furrowed with deep lines. With a sigh, I turn back around.

"Truly, Isabella, the hands can take care of all of this. You do not need to-"

"I need occupation, Rosalie. Every day that passes, my…thoughts grow worse. I cannot remain locked in a room, even everyone's attentive visits. I cannot."

She remains silent as we walk, for if anyone understands what I mean, 'tis Rosalie.

We trudge so slowly it seems we shall never reach the smokehouse. Rosalie keeps her arm about my waist the entire time and insists I wrap mine around hers as well for support – which I find I do need. When we reach the smokehouse, we circle it together, inspecting the frame, and ensuring no moisture from the snow seeps through, for it shall destroy our meats which must remain completely dry. We do not open the door, for to do so would allow the smoke within to escape. We inspect the fence around the structure as well, and here, we find a problem.

"Rosalie, see these broken boards."

She nods. "Might have happened overnight from the falling snow."

"Might have been wolves."

"Might have been intruders."

I hold her gaze, stroking my stomach over my thick, woolen cloak.

"Do you believe such a thing?"

"Likely not, for the smokehouse itself does not appear to have been molested. Nonetheless, you should inform Seth and the men."

"Aye."

We are quiet for a moment, while the rush of wind whistles in our ears.

"If things are becoming restless once again in Freehold, the men patrolling the area shall have to be increased," I say.

Rosalie nods.

"But 'tis so cold," I add.

She takes my hand and squeezes it. "There are men surviving much worse than a cold, New Jersey Colony winter. The men shall be fine. Wait to see what news Seth and Davy bring, and then make a decision."

I nod.

From there, we walk toward the stables, and 'tis here where Rosalie must hold me tight, for in my haste to get to Hope, I increase my pace and slip and slide a bit on our way.

"Easy, Isabella, easy," Rosalie chuckles. "That mothering instinct is wild in you. I tell you, any day."

I roll my eyes. "Yes, yes. Any day, so you say."

When we reach the stables, I release a long breath through narrowed lips, which swirls like smoke in the air at the sight of the healthy livestock…and my mare, Hope. A few of the grooms are within, feeding, cleaning, and brushing the horses.

"Good morning, my darling," I whisper in my Hope's ear as I stroke her silky mane. "Did you rest well?"

"She is well, Mistress," Thomas, one of the groomsmen assures me with a smile.

She does feel warm, a fact for which I am grateful as I feed her half an apple I saved for her.

"Isabella, those are almost gone!" Rosalie protests. "That was supposed to be for your enjoyment."

"This is my enjoyment," I murmur as I stroke Hope and watch her chew the apple.

Rosalie snorts. "I tell you, any day now."

OOOOO

'Tis as we shuffle back to the house when I spot Seth and Davy riding up the hill. I halt so suddenly that Rosalie does not realize it, and for a couple of anxious seconds, we both slip and slide.

Rosalie glares at me when we finally claim our balance. "I will not argue this with you, woman. You do not have to remain confined in your room, but you _will_ remain in the house – at least until this damnable snow is all melted. You have seen for yourself that Hope remains well in the cold, and you shall delegate all else."

Pressing my lips together, I nod as Seth and Davy reach us. They both dismount quickly and one each takes up our arms so that the four of us walk side by side back up to the house.

"What news, Seth?" I inquire.

"Freehold is relatively peaceful, mistress. Your father remains in control of the town."

Shutting my eyes for a moment, again, I exhale in relief. When I reopen them, Rosalie is watching me.

"I am relieved things are peaceful."

"I know."

"What else, Seth?" I ask. "Does my father…does he look well?"

"Aye, mistress. He looks well. As usual, he asked for your welfare."

"Nothing more?"

When my husband and his men left all those months earlier, Seth, Davy, and a few of our other men were instructed to swear allegiance to the crown, for 'twas the only way they would be allowed in town. Of course, their oath is a lie – but 'twas a necessary one, most especially considering that my husband is now a wanted man in Freehold Township.

"Nay, mistress; nothing more. We passed along your salutations as well."

"I thank you," I murmur quietly.

"That Captain Pitman asked after your welfare as well," Davy hisses, at which point Seth leans over and glares at him.

"Hush!"

I look at Davy. "James? He asked for me? What did you tell him?"

"What I wanted to tell him, I could not, for Seth elbowed me most fiercely."

I press my lips together to keep from laughing. Davy is merely fifteen years old; still a boy in many ways.

" _I_ replied to him, Mistress," Seth says. "And I merely told him you were well. I did not want to incite his ire; he is Captain of your father's regiment, but neither did I want to indulge him."

"You did well, Seth," I nod.

"Aye," Rosalie agrees.

"There is more," Seth says. He draws in a deep breath. "They are whispering that they have managed to, for the most part, crush the attempted patriot uprising against Quebec. They are whispering that…General Montgomery be dead and Colonel Arnold badly injured."

Again, I stop of a sudden and shut my eyes, pressing a hand to my mouth to keep from screaming. Fortunately, both Davy and Rosalie are supporting me so I do not slip and slide. When I reopen my eyes, Rosalie is once more watching me, her eyes as terrified and haunted as mine. Yet, she is so composed I force myself to be the same.

"Anything else, Seth?" she inquires, her gaze on me.

"Aye. Mrs. Flint be in labor, Mrs. McCarty. Her husband tells us with this being her third, she can tell 'twill be a while yet, but she requests your earliest arrival."

"Very well. I shall go inside, and get my things. Isabella, I know not exactly how long I shall be, but if I recall correctly, Mrs. Flint's children take their time arriving into the world. While I am gone, remain confined to the house if not to your room."

My mind is not on labor. My mind is struggling to remain sane.

She draws very close to me, so that when she whispers, only I hear her.

"The world must continue, one way or another, Isabella."

I merely nod and shrug and…agree.

OOOOO

I am not sure what wakes me that night.

At first, all I hear is silence, that pure silence of the dead of winter, when not even the insects dare make a sound. For a few moments, I lay in bed and stare at the burning fire in the hearth, its flames one of the only sounds. There was a time when I would wake and see him, his image, and though I knew it to be my imagination, 'twas a comforting thing until his image dissipated.

Lately, I do not even see that.

With a sigh, I make all the necessary movements which are necessary as of late to sit up in my own bed. When I finally manage it, it takes another few movements to actually stand. The babe within me must be sleeping, for it does not move a limb as I hobble toward the window, stroking my stomach.

The moon is full in the sky, lending a bluish glow to the wintry white, pristine landscape. 'Tis all untouched, and for a moment, I do allow myself to believe in Utopia, in the possibility that somehow, all those things I require will actually occur, and I shall someday be…happy again.

That is, until I see the prints on the snow, leading into the stables. The vague sound of a horse's whinny reaches me through the closed windows, and I set to act as swiftly as I am able these days.

"Lord above, no, I beg of you. Not my Hope."

Donning my robe, I take the steps down, cross the rooms, and throw open the door, my one and only thought that of Hope's safety.

"Please, Lord; she was a gift from…please, Lord, not my Hope."

I tread through the snow barefoot, and I have only taken two handfuls of steps when I slip, slide…and with nothing and no one with which to right myself, my heart leaps out of my chest as I falls sideways and hit the snow on my right side – first my head, then my ribs, and then…my stomach.

All air leaves my lungs as a sharp pain shoots from top to bottom. I cannot even scream. For a few moments, I do believe I lose consciousness. When I reopen my eyes, I am staring at the full moon above, the twinkling stars adding yet more quixotic loveliness to the prospect.

"Help," I say, yet the word barely erupts from my mouth. "Help."

My eyes scan the windows of the great house I call my home – Cullen Hill House, rich with history, home to trustees of continuity to this rich land surrounding the hill. I hold the next successor within me.

"Help me."

In the darkness lit by the glow of the heavens, I believe I perceive movement in my periphery. When I shift my gaze to where I saw it, I note 'tis the window to Katrina McCarty's guest chambers. The curtain billows from within, yet I see no one.

"Help me."

Minutes pass. Was she there? Would she truly see me and not act?

I shut my eyes. I can no longer feel my feet, and the throbbing pain on my side is becoming numb. When warmth emanates from between my legs, a whimper escapes me, and I cradle my stomach with both hands.

"Please, Lord. Please let my child-"

A rush of air, and the world whooshes by as I reopen my eyes and realize I am now cradled in someone's arms. When I look up at the face, terror strikes my very soul. The clouds have hidden the moon, and all I see is the muted outline of gaunt, hairy features.

"Who are you?" I breathe. "Set me down!" I command in a shriek. "Set me down this instant!"

The gaunt, hairy intruder does not obey. His eyes glare down at me, fiery and frightening in the black of night.

"Set me down!" I choke. "I am mistress of this house, and I order you to set me down!"

Yet, he does not. He rushes forward toward the house, and for a second, I picture him murdering everyone within. A scream bubbles up within me, and just as I am ready to expel it, the clouds give way to the moonlight.

The murdering intruder's eyes…his eyes are as green as our verdant hills in the summer.

* * *

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

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" **See" you soon.**


	31. Ch 28 The Incident with Much Screaming

**A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts. :)**

 **And happy Friday! Here's a short update, just to let you guys know we're still here with this one, lol. I wanted to write more, but it's a hectic week, so I wanted to at least get this out to you guys. Hope you enjoy. :)**

 **Most characters belong to S. Meyer. Some belong to history. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.**

 **Chapter 28 – The Incident with Much Screaming**

* * *

"Reckless hellion, I ought to-"

The man who carries me mutters fiercely without pause. When we reach the house, he kicks his boot against the door with such ferocity, it crashes against the inner wall. The bang resonates like musket fire. It fills my ears and lingers as the man plods over the threshold and bounds directly for the staircase. The moonlight and winter's snowy glow light the way, but halfway up, his thickly bearded face is once more shadowed by darkness.

Nonetheless, his mutterings continue unabated, gaining in righteous indignation. I hear more than see him growl down at me.

"…and no shoes or stockings? Impulsive imp! What in God's holy name can you have been thinking?"

"I…you…" My chest heaves from equal parts mental upheaval and from physical pangs, which are building in my midsection by the second like a stoked fire. Both issues make it exceedingly difficult to speak much less to determine which subject to grant priority. The wetness between my legs has spread, and as the man cradles me in his arms, I hear it drip droplet by droplet atop his boots. Atop all else, I must deal with embarrassment, for whether he be my-

In the very next moment, the issue of priority is resolved for me, and shame and all else falls aside when my midsection stiffens, pauses, and then contracts so violently I scream in as much pain as bewilderment. The man, who has by now reached the upper landing, stops, and 'tis his verdant eyes which now widen in horror.

"Lord above, is it-"

"Sir, set down the mistress and step away from her THIS INSTANT!"

I am in too much physical agony and in no position to observe, but the commanding voice is that of Mrs. Clearwater's, and it erupts in a fury from the foot of the staircase. The heavily bewhiskered man thaws. Other than for a grunt, he spares Mrs. Clearwater no further thought as his pace increases, and he sprints down the hallway.

"SIR! MISTRESS! LEAH, FETCH THE MASTER'S MUSKET!"

The pang of torture which of a sudden tightened my midsection has receded sufficiently for me to attempt speech once more.

"I beg you, please, tell me you are truly who I hope-"

Another shriek, yet this one is neither from me nor from below stairs. Rather this one emanates from the end of the hallway before us. As the woolly-bristled man continues agilely, I turn my eyes away from him, and though 'tis too dark to see very well, I recognize Katrina's obscured figure.

"Help! 'Tis a loyalist murderer! A Ravager!" she shouts. In the next moment, I hear her scamper around the corner and then the creak of her chamber door as it opens and slams shut. "Help me!" she screams, over and over.

As do I scream as well, though not those words, for the torture in my midsection begins anew, and now it radiates between my legs. In a haze of torment, I vaguely discern we have reached my chambers, and the nimble, hirsute man somehow knows this. Again, he kicks open the door and rushes past the threshold toward my bed.

"Shh," the man murmurs comfortingly. "We are here. Shh."

"Set me on the bed, I pray you," I beg breathlessly. _"Ohhh,"_ I groan, cradling my abdomen in the same gentle manner in which the man cradles me. "Set me-"

More than one set of footsteps resound just outside of my door.

"Leah, step back! Mistress, I am here! Filthy swine, you shall set down the mistress or I shall fire!"

"No, Mrs. Clearwater!" I attempt to shout the words, but I am in too much agony, and in the mayhem, they erupt as no more than a whisper. And so, Mrs. Clearwater continues her threats.

"The young master of this house is the best shot in all New Jersey Colony, and 'twas he who taught me to fire a musket!

"And that be his expecting wife and our mistress you hold! Fire, Mama! Fire!" I hear Leah yell.

"No!" I choke. "No, Mrs. Clearwater, do not, for 'tis-"

"HELL AND DAMNATION!"

The house- nay, all of Cullen Hill falls silent.

Outside, the snow stops. The dogs cease their howling. The full moon hides behind black clouds so that only the silently billowing flames in the chamber's hearth illuminate us. My pangs pause for an instant as the babe within me stills, perhaps debates the merits of arriving at this moment. Even Katrina's screams down the hall, heard continuously through the walls, end. The long-unshaven man…my husband…regards the two women over his shoulder.

"Mrs. Clearwater, Leah, I apologize," he says quickly, his voice hoarse yet no longer that of an outraged lion, "but I pray you, allow me to tend to my wife."

"Young master?" Mrs. Clearwater says. "Be it truly you?"

Her tone is thick with disbelief, nor does she set down the musket, for she is correct; the man does not look like the young master…like my husband. He is gaunt. He is hairy. He wears rags that do not fit him well nor smell pleasantly.

But he is my Edward.

And apparently, Edward has spared the other women in the room as much of his attention as he plans. With a long exhalation, he finally sets me down on my…on _our_ bed, and he falls to his knees at my side.

"Isabella," he breathes, grasping my hands within his as he plants fierce kisses to my forehead, to my cheeks, and his scraggly beard tickles my face. "Isabella. My wife. My life. You are alive."

"Edward, my love," I say in a strangled whisper, writhing as our child begins its forceful demand for entry once again. Yet the smile which infuses my face is irrepressible.

"Edward. Edward…you are home."

* * *

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	32. Ch 29: The Incident in the Birthing Room

**A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts.**

 **Most characters belong to S. Meyer. Some belong to history. Some belong to me. However, all mistakes are mine.**

 **It's storming badly here in New Jersey today, and I wanted to get this out before power goes out AGAIN!**

* * *

 **Chapter 29 – The Incident in the Birthing Chamber**

"Is Hope well?" Isabella asks in a weak whisper.

How Hope enters my wife's stream of consciousness with what is occurring, I have no idea.

"Is Hope…? Aye. We startled her when we entered the stables to- and then I come out and find you thrown in a heap in the snow, for the love of- Isabella, what were you doing out of doors, in the middle of the night, my love – with neither cloak nor mitts nor stockings or shoes? You could have frozen-"

"Edward, not now, Edward. Oh, Edward."

Under different circumstances, my wife's repeated utterance of my name would be the sweetest music. But her beautiful features simultaneously contort in agony while her back arches. On my knees at her side, I lift our knitted hands and bring them to my mouth, where I kiss her palm hard and choke over my words.

"Isabella, what may I do? How can I take away your pain?"

"Edward, you cannot- ohhh…"

'Tis she who now takes our weaved hands and situates them over her abdomen. When she opens my palm over her stomach, something…our babe moves and kicks. I yank back my hand in bewilderment, and Bella emits a sound which is half chuckle, half moan.

"The babe?" I inquire.

She nods wordlessly. I set my hand back on her stomach. Even over her shift, it undulates with the ebb and flow occurring within her.

"Lord above," I whisper, "Isabella-"

Before I may finish, a hand curves around my shoulder and a woman's calm yet surprisingly firm voice speaks behind me.

"Welcome home, young master, and it appears your son or daughter would like to welcome you as well. The mistress be in travail, my dear boy, and I am afraid your reunion shall have to wait. Leah, fetch clean linens, more kindle for the fire, and then set a pot of water to boil over the hearth."

"Aye, Mama," Leah replies. Behind me, I hear the sound of her sprinting feet.

"My dear young master…Edward…"

"Mrs. Clearwater," hiss I without removing my eyes from my wife's tortured features, "it shall take an act of God to drag me away from my wife."

At that moment, another scream reverberates throughout the house.

"Daughter!" Mrs. Clearwater shrieks.

"For the love of- Emmett, is that you?" I shout, turning my head slightly toward the chamber door.

Emmett does indeed appear at the door and both Mrs. Clearwater's and my wife's breath hitch simultaneously. Emmett and I have traversed the wilds of this country for weeks without care for our appearance. But now, for a moment, I see Emmett as they must see him…as they must see me; filthy and shaggy, in rags, cheekbones protruding through a mangy beard.

"Leah is fine; I startled her. She says Isabella be in travail and my wife not here?" Emmett asks.

"Aye, Mr. McCarty, Mrs. McCarty is delivering the Flint babe," Mrs. Clearwater says. "She departed early this morning."

'Tis Emmett's inquiry which reminds me there are others residing in this house besides my wife.

"And my father, Mrs. Clearwater?"

"He is in Trenton, sir, in session with the New Jersey Congress."

"And my sister?" Emmett asks.

"I believe she has locked herself in her chambers. Perhaps if you-"

"I shall fetch my wife," Emmett says and rushes away.

I return my complete attention to Isabella, who now breathes heavily through narrowed lips, squirming atop the bed.

"My love." I stroke the soft, smooth face which has for months filled my every dream. I push behind her ear those tendrils of the silky hair which have also featured themselves in my daily thoughts. When she pulls away from my hand as if my touch has burned her, I am left stunned. Then, I feel her stomach harden like a stone under my other palm. Isabella throws back her head and moans once again.

"Edward…please…remove your hand from my stomach."

Quickly, I yank away my hand.

"Sir, the pangs of birth grow progressively worse. Do not take the mistress' rebuke to heart, but please, I beg of you, leave us to-"

"I am not leaving her side," I say, even as I now keep my hands to myself.

"Edward," Mrs. Clearwater says, "at the very least, sir, a quick wash, shave, and change of clothing would do you well – and would do well around a new babe," she adds in a whisper. "The mistress shall be in travail for hours yet."

Isabella moans and reaches for my hand, brushing it lightly. "Please, do go, Edward." She offers me the weakest of smiles. "I shall be right here when you are done."

Apparently, it would take an act of God…or banishment by my wife herself for me to leave her side.

"I shall ask Leah to warm you some water for the washtub," Mrs. Clearwater says.

"I thank you, but I shall not wait for warmed water." Standing, I brush my lips ever so lightly against my wife's now damp forehead. "I shall return quickly, my love."

Isabella presses her lips together and merely nods.

OOOOO

The household has awoken. Davy rushes off to care for the horses, while Leah runs around doing Mrs. Clearwater's bidding.

"Edward, how can I assist?" Seth inquires when I reach the door.

"Bring me a rag, lye soap, shaving implements, a clean change of clothing, and meet me outside the kitchen."

Outside, I strip off the rags which have passed for clothing and discard them over the thick snow. The frigid winter air bites at my exposed skin, but Emmett and I have endured worse in the past months. The full moon illuminates the water pump and the bucket which I fill, the mist which rises above it warning me it shall feel like a thousand blades spearing through me. Nonetheless, I have no time to consider my upcoming discomfort while my wife lies within in agony. Squeezing my eyes shut, I empty the bucket over my head.

"Hell and-"

"Edward, you will catch the death of a cold."

My eyes fly open and behold Katrina McCarty, who stands before me wrapped in a long cloak.

"Should you not do that inside?"

"Damnation, woman, what do you here?"

"I…I heard you and my brother arrive, and I wanted to…to…"

There are things which must be said to Katrina about her father, but 'tis not my priority. What is more, based on the manner in which her gaze openly wanders downward, her father does not appear her priority at the moment either. Thankfully, Seth emerges from the house with what I requested. He slips over the snow and almost falls as he spots Katrina – whose eyes are still upon my nakedness.

"Katrina, go back inside," I snap. "I do not have time for this. Perhaps see if Mrs. Clearwater needs assistance with caring for my wife." I stretch a hand out to Seth. "Seth, the soap and rag, please."

At this, Katrina blinks successively and looks up, nostrils flaring before she rushes back in the house.

Seth sighs. "That woman is-"

"Never mind her. Please refill the bucket while I scrub," I say through chattering teeth.

Hard and fast, I scrub the soap against the rag. Then, squeezing my eyes shut tightly, for the lye shall burn if it enters my eyes, I scrub myself from head to foot. This bath is massively different from how my bathing occurred the last time I returned from Upper Canada. With my eyes shut tight, I recall the warm tub indoors, my young wife doing the scrubbing, and the sweet pleasure of her legs wrapped around my hips afterward.

"Forgive my thoughts, Lord, and please, I beg you, allow her to live through this. That is all I ask."

'Tis Seth, not God who replies. "Your wife is a strong woman, Edward, and though the state of a woman in her condition be not the affairs of men, she has been hale these months, and most of the womenfolk have taken prodigious care of her."

I merely nod and drop the rag against the snowy ground, atop my discarded clothes, once I am done with it. Then, setting my feet apart, I steel myself. "Seth, pour the water, please."

OOOOO

When I re-enter the house, bathed and haphazardly shaved, the lamps have been lit. Invigorated by the chillingly brisk bath, I take the steps two and three at a time, sprint down the hallway, and when I turn the doorknob to my wife's and my chambers, I find it locked.

"Isabella?"

Her moans are muffled by the thick, wooden door, which I bang with both palms.

"Isabella!"

More muffled moans.

"Mrs. Clearwater, open the door and allow me in!"

When the door finally opens a sliver, Mrs. Clearwater appears, blocking my view of all behind her.

"Ah, my dear, master. You do appear much better. Nonetheless, the birthing room is a women's room, and I do not believe the mistress would want you to see her in such a state as she currently-"

"Mrs. Clearwater, I pray you, step aside and allow my husband in."

Isabella's firm decree is timely since, for the first time in my life, I was about to shove a woman aside.

"Very well," the lady sighs as she moves, "but I warn you, my dear young master. As much affection as I hold you in, should you get in my way as I assist the mistress, I shall let you know with a hard tug to the ear."

"Agreed." In three strides, I am back on my knees and at my wife's side. However, I keep my hands to myself.

"Isabella, I am returned, cleaner and if not well-shaven, at least attempted."

When, as before, she offers me a sound between a chuckle and a moan, I offer her a small smile in return.

"'Tis not a good job," says she, eyes opening and closing while her head thrashes about, "but I shall take it until I am able to perform the duty myself."

"I have missed your performance of the duty," say I.

"I have missed _you_ ," says she.

"Since I left to bathe or since I left months ago?"

"Stop trying to make me laugh."

"I am sorry," I whisper. "May I…may I take your hand?"

"I wonder what you wait for."

With a quiet snort, I reach for her hand and kiss it. "When I left, you did not desire my touch."

"When you left to bathe or when you left months ago?"

I chuckle lowly. "Even now, you are an imp through and through. I meant, when I left to bathe," I clarify.

"You were grime; otherwise, I would have-" She cuts off, and her features contort. By the time the pang appears to pass, she is too exhausted to finish her thought.

"What can I do to ease your suffering, my wife?"

"Adjust her pillows, Edward," Leah says from where she stands by the hearth, mixing something in a pot. "And her blankets. She goes from hot to cold."

A goodly number of pillows have been propped behind her. I stand and adjust them and the blankets around her.

"Better?"

"Aye," she breathes heavily. "I thank you."

Once more, I begin to kneel, but before my knees touch the floor, she squirms.

"Now, they are too high, and I am too hot."

I stand and adjust them all again.

"Now they are too low, and I am cold."

For the next hour or so, matters proceed in a similar vein. Other than that, however, my wife speaks less and less. Sometimes, when I touch her cheeks or push back her hair, she appears to welcome it. At other times, she groans and pushes me off. When a handful of minutes have transpired without a word from Isabella, Mrs. Clearwater approaches.

"How are your pangs, mistress?" she asks quietly.

Isabella can only whimper in reply.

"What does that mean?" I ask Mrs. Clearwater.

Instead of answering me, Mrs. Clearwater addresses Leah.

"Leah, I believe 'tis time to boil the cotton root."

"Aye, Mama."

"Cotton root for what, Mrs. Clearwater?"

"Edward, dear boy, remember when I said I would begin pulling ears? Mistress, when the next pang strikes you, I must spread-"

The chamber door opens, and Rosalie McCarty strides in. Without making eye contact with anyone else, she approaches the other side of the bed and smiles down at my wife.

"Why am I not surprised you would pick this evening to go into labor?"

My wife makes absolutely no reply. She is deathly pale. The only sign of life is her heaving chest and the profuse sweating above her brow. Her hand is cold and clammy.

"Isabella?" I say as panic swells within me.

"We have boiled the cotton root, and I was about to spread it about her womb," Mrs. Clearwater says to Rosalie.

Rosalie smiles softly at Mrs. Clearwater. "You have done well for your mistress, Mrs. Clearwater. Let us hold off on the cotton root for now unless she truly has a need for it. Leah, do boil the snakeweed in case we should need it after the birth. And where is my sister-in-law? We shall need her assistance."

There is no reply.

"Leah, pour some warm water into the pail, then please fetch the soft soap and the butter."

"Aye."

"Edward?" Rosalie addresses me for the first time. "Go downstairs with my husband."

I shake my head, refusing to turn my eyes away from Isabella.

"He refuses to leave her side, Mrs. McCarty."

"They have been separated for months; I am not the least bit surprised," says she. "Nonetheless, he shall have no one but himself to blame for what he is about to behold." With that, Rosalie leans down and speaks ever so softly to my wife. "Isabella, dearest, I know it hurts, but you must speak, and tell me what you feel."

When Bella finally speaks, her voice is no more than a wisp in the air. "I…push…must push."

Rosalie straightens and nods. Wordlessly, she moves to the foot of the bed, lifts the blanket over her head, and disappears below and between my wife's legs.

"'Tis time. You are fully progressed. Edward, this is your final-"

"I am not leaving."

With a nod of acknowledgment, Rosalie removes the blanket covering my wife's modesty and pushes up her shift.

"Mrs. Clearwater, slip the clean linens under Isabella. Isabella, dearest, bend your legs."

Here, my wife finally opens her eyes and looks down at Rosalie as if she has asked Isabella to grow another head.

My wife whimpers and shakes her head. When Mrs. Clearwater is done slipping the clean linens under Isabella, she attempts to fold her legs, but my wife fights her.

"Trust me, Isabella," Rosalie says, reaching for her legs, but Isabella cringes away and moans.

"My love," I say. Standing, I carefully reach for her leg and slowly bend it upward. Then, I repeat it with her other leg.

"There we go," Rosalie smiles. "He is useful after all. Mrs. Clearwater and Leah, one leg each please."

"Edward," my wife whimpers.

"I am here, my love," I assure her, holding her hand, brushing my lips against her forehead. "I am here."

"The pressure…unbearable."

"'Tis the babe pushing its way through your womb. You must assist it and push it out, dearest, " Rosalie instructs. "Ready?"

Isabella shakes her head.

"Isabella, if you were waiting for your husband's return to birth this child, return he has."

Still, Isabella shakes her head.

"Perhaps she is embarrassed? My dear young master," Mrs. Clearwater says desperately, "please wait outside. This is not a sight for a man's eyes."

"Why ever not, Mrs. Clearwater?" Rosalie chuckles. "I have always thought if a man witnesses what he has wrought, perhaps he shall appreciate it properly. But fathers are usually more than willing to wait outside and share in the joy if not in the work. If, in this case, Isabella's husband is willing, more's the better."

"Perhaps this is one instance when a husband may speak some sense into his wife?" Leah says somewhat timidly.

"Exactly!" Rosalie agrees. "Isabella, is Mrs. Clearwater correct? Are you embarrassed to have your husband here?"

A small, weak yet amused smile spreads across my wife's face as she shakes her head.

"There. Now, Edward, do your duty and encourage your wife to push out that babe. It cannot keep in there much longer. Even now, it crowns. Bear down and give us a push, perhaps two, dearest, and you shall be delivered."

When I peek in between my wife's spread legs, my eyes grow wide at the sight. A round head pokes between her opening. Swallowing thickly, I lean in close to her and speak soothingly.

"Isabella, I see our babe's head."

She begins crying, and I feel my own eyes sting.

"My love, you are the strongest woman I know, and I give thanks you wandered into my tavern one night, too brave for your own good. Nay, 'tis your bravery which daily has given me strength." I kiss her temple and squeeze her hand. "Now, I offer you back some of the strength…some of the bravery you have given me. Push, my love."

Isabella pushes her chin against her chest, presses her lips together, and pushes. When she can no longer bear it, her lips part and she releases a long gust of air. In my periphery, I see Rosalie's hands move between my wife's legs. She pulls, twists, and turns.

"Another one, Isabella," she instructs, all humor gone from her tone.

"Ready, my love? One more."

Once again, Isabella seals her lips and bears down. The rest happens so quickly and unexpectedly that hours later, I still ponder it. Something erupts from between Isabella's legs."

"ISABELLA, CEASE PUSHING! CEASE PUSHING!"

My heart stops.

"Isabella, my love, cease pushing," I say much more calmly. The air itself ceases all movement as I watch Rosalie unwrap the cord, unwind it round and round. She pulls the rest of the babe out of Isabella, and my wife, too unaware and too relieved for true alertness, parts her lips and groans in relief that the babe is out, throwing back her head.

The next handful of seconds are the longest I have ever…shall ever experience. An oppressive silence fills the room. I want to curse at the heavens and bang my head against a wall.

And then…the chamber fills with a lusty cry full of fury and vigor.

I choke back a sob while my wife openly weeps.

"Rosalie, is the babe hale?" Only now does she look downward.

"Why, listen to those hearty shrieks! But let us see what we have: a well-formed head already full of scarlet hair, two eyes, a nose, a mouth," says she, continuing her inventory even as she ties and cuts the cord connecting my wife and the babe, "ten fingers and ten toes, two arms, two legs…and a cock in between as plump as the rest of him." She chuckles heartily through her own tears. "A haler boy has never been born."

She ties a band around the babe's belly, then washes him with the soft soap and butter reserved for births. When she bundles him in clean linen and lays him atop Isabella's stomach, Rosalie's eyes meet mine. The relief and gratitude conveyed at that moment shall never be spoken of aloud, for neither of us shall ever want to relive that handful of seconds.

"Isabella… _and_ Edward…" Rosalie smirks now, "greet your son."

"A boy," Isabella cries happily as she wraps her arms around the bundle. For the first time since his arrival, she turns her eyes to me. "Edward, we have a son."

"A son…" I breathe.

'Tis strange, and if I did not feel such an overwhelming surge of peace, adoration, and gratitude at the moment, perhaps I would be ashamed of myself. For not 'til this very moment have my thoughts truly turned toward the babe…toward my son. I was too terror-stricken for my wife to actually consider the babe. Now, however…

"Lord in heaven, thank you," I exclaim, as I wrap both my wife and my son… _my son_ in my arms. "No richer man has ever existed. I have a hale wife and a hale son."

Rosalie laughs at me, but I care not.

"Congratulations, my dear master and sweet mistress."

"Congratulations, Edward and Isabella."

"We thank you," I say, but I cannot look away from my son. With only one finger, I am able to pick up his entire hand! His foot is half the length of my smallest finger! I lightly stroke his cheek, soft and gauzy, as translucent as an angel from heaven.

"How does such a perfect being exist?" I wonder aloud, making my wife laugh now.

"Guide him to your breast, Isabella. Those shrieks mean he be hungry."

"Shall he know what to do?" Isabella asks, yet we both look down in wonder as she guides our son to her swollen breast, and sure enough, he latches on instantly. The shrieks stop. Isabella and I both laugh.

"'Tis instinctive," Rosalie murmurs. "He knows what to do."

While our son suckles hungrily, Isabella turns and gazes at me. Dark eyes I have dreamed of many long nights sparkle just as they have in my dreams.

"Welcome home, husband."

"Isabella, a better welcome I could not have-" I cannot say more. Slowly I brush my mouth to hers, and she responds, sighing into my mouth.

"Ahh, perfect," Rosalie says, still somewhere between my wife's legs. "The snakeroot tea was not even necessary. His suckling was so eager it helped you deliver the placenta whole."

The babe…my son makes amusing gurgling sounds, and Bella and I chuckle, pulling away only enough so that our foreheads meet. I do not know if I shall ever be able to pull away any further.

"How is such a small being so hungry?" I smirk.

"Did you not just say he was perfect?" she teases.

"He is perfectly demanding," grin I.

"Already as demanding of his rights as is his father," Isabella smiles.

"Isabella, at this moment, I care not a whit for the revolution, for our recent losses, for the months of suffering-"

"Shh," Isabella says. Her forehead shakes against mine. "Shh. You do still care, my husband; you do, as you shall come to realize once the shock of what you have just witnessed wears off, and as you should still care."

"Isabella-"

"We have just brought into the world a new generation of Cullens." Her voice shakes with emotion, yet it is strong and firm. "Yet, this generation shall be the first not to answer to a King thousands of miles away who does not care for him. Our son…our Edward George Cullen, named for his father and for the general of his nation's army, both who shall fight to secure his unalienable rights, shall grow up in free states, not in captive colonies."

For an endless moment, I cannot tear my eyes away from my wife.

"How do you know me so well?"

Isabella merely smiles. My son has stopped suckling. In my periphery, I see his small form between us. But his mother's words completely shatter me; they eviscerate and invalidate the main content of what I soon see were weak, yielding thoughts. I am not sure when the tears began falling, but I wipe them away before I take my son from his mother and cradle him carefully in my arms.

"Edward…George…Cullen. 'Tis a good, strong name," I nod. "Son, your brave mother has just given birth to you, and she shall be eternally beloved for such a wondrous feat. Now, she has ordered me to bravery as well, for she has charged me with ensuring you grow up in a world where you shall be free to seek out your own life, to enjoy liberty, and to pursue happiness."

And as he sleeps peacefully in my arms, I brush a kiss to my newborn son's brow.

"I shall never stop fighting for you. This, I vow, young Edward Cullen."

* * *

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	33. Ch 30 The Incident at McCarty Farm

**A/N: Thanks so much for your wonderful thoughts.**

 **Most characters belong to S. Meyer. Some belong to history. The rest belong to me. However, all mistakes are mine.**

 **Uprising Chapter 30 – The Incident at McCarty Farm**

* * *

 _Cullen Hill House_

 _10 February 1776_

 _Dearest Father:_

 _I write to inform you that you are a grandfather, as I am delivered of a hale boy we have named Edward George Cullen. I am well, Father, with only the normal post-partum issues, I am assured by Mrs. McCarty, whom delivered the babe._

 _With those points out of the way, and as I am now needed by a delightfully demanding babe, I shall keep the remainder of this note brief. Father, you and I have had our differences of late. Despite the short distance, we have not seen one another in many months. Yet, I extend to you an invitation to Cullen Hill to meet your grandson. Nonetheless, I must make a stipulation: you shall come as a father and grandfather, not as a soldier in His Majesty's army. If you can meet this stipulation I shall welcome you with open arms. If you cannot, for the well-being of my family, I cannot welcome you._

 _I do hope to see you soon._

 _Your daughter,_

 _Isabella Cullen._

… _.._

 _Cullen Hill House_

 _10 February 1776_

 _My dear Alice:_

 _I hope you are well, and that affairs continue to be as relatively quiet as possible in New York colony as you wrote of last Christmas, although I understand you must miss your husband, Lieutenant André. Since his capture by the rebels last November in the rebels' attempted Quebec uprising, and his current imprisonment in Pennsylvania Colony, nightly do I pray for his well-being, as I know you must. Well, shall we call it a relative imprisonment? As you described in your last letter, your husband's captors allow him to write you and allow him the freedom of roaming about town after he vowed not to attempt escape. He be a brave man, indeed._

 _But let us not discuss such things in this letter. I shall move on and quickly apologize for not having replied to your aforementioned letter at Christmastime. As you know, my husband was away as well, he on his farming business, and I was heavy with child. Both issues kept my mind occupied and my hands unwilling to write. As you might note, I have just written the previous two sentences in past tense, for my husband is returned, and I am delivered of a hale boy. His name is Edward George, and even now, as I write, he is at my breast. All of Cullen Hill is in agreement that he is the most perfect being ever beheld. When you meet him, I am sure you shall not disagree._

 _Dearest, I recall when we were young girls, we dreamed of someday having children who would play with one another. I do not forsake that dream. The invitation was not an empty one, for I truly do hope you may someday visit me and meet young Edward George. I miss you very much, Alice. Write when you can, and I promise I shall reply promptly even if young Edward is wailing._

 _Your friend,_

 _Isabella Cullen_

… _.._

 _Cullen Hill House_

 _11 February 1776_

 _Father:_

 _I am home, and Isabella has given birth to a son. We have named him Edward George Cullen in honor of his father, and in honor of General George Washington himself. 'Twas entirely Isabella's idea, and the pride I feel for not merely her choice of name, but for her bravery in the act of birthing him, which I witnessed, is indescribable. They are both well, yet I am so immensely awed by my wife and son I can barely tear myself away from them long enough to write._

 _Therefore, I shall keep this brief though aye, there is much for us to discuss. My wife reminded me just minutes birthed that our struggle means more now than it ever has. Our son and your grandson shall not answer to a King, but shall live a free man beholden to his own future._

 _Since Edward George's birth, thoughts of you and Mother fill those corners of my mind not filled by my wife and son. Mother has passed on her scarlet hair once more, and you, sir, your eye color._

 _I pray you are well, Father, and I hope you can find your way back to Freehold before I must depart._

 _Respectfully and affectionately your son,_

 _Captain Edward Anthony Cullen_

 _First Continental Army_

ooooo

 **Late February, 1776**

"No nurse either! Lord in Heaven, 'tis bad enough, Mistress, you forego a wet nurse."

Mrs. Clearwater stands before my wife wringing her hands nervously as it has become clear to her that Isabella has no intention of seeking out either a nurse for our son nor Mrs. Flint nor any newly birthed tenant mother for the duty of feeding him.

"At the very least, employ one for the evening hours, so that you may sleep. Even my old mistress – Edward's mother, Mrs. Cullen – employed a nurse for the evening hours."

My wife smiles down at our son as he takes his fill from her yet again.

"Mrs. Clearwater, you forget I am Mrs. Cullen _and_ Edward's mother."

"My dear mistress, you do not take my meaning," Mrs. Clearwater moans. "I speak of Edward Anthony's mother, not Edward George's."

Unable to withhold my amusement at my wife's continued impish ways, for she very well takes Mrs. Clearwater's meaning, I snort under my breath. I am seated next to Isabella on our bed, mostly dressed, for I unfortunately have errands to run this morn which can no longer wait. Yet, here I still be, unable to make myself depart. Isabella is all loveliness in her morning gown, and our son no less as he lays bundled between us, hungrily and noisily suckling while I stroke his soft, scarlet hair. 'Tis Mother's hair through and through. His eyes, though so very young and a grey-green when open, darken more every passing day. My wife likes to laugh and shake her head, exclaiming there is little of our son which is not Cullen. I cannot deny it nor my pride at it.

Truly, I hover, waiting to see if I may be of assistance in any manner – adjusting pillows, passing clean linens, rocking young Edward George into slumber after his feedings. In reality, I have not yet learned to stray more than a room away from either, which is unfortunate. Today shall be the first time they shall be beyond my reach. Such anxiety tightens my lungs, 'tis a physical struggle to clamp down and disguise it, for in four days' time, Emmett and I shall be required to rejoin our regiment in Boston. Colonel Arnold, along with Jasper, Jacob, and the rest of our men, likely await us.

"Young master, speak some sense into the mistress, I pray you."

Mrs. Clearwater continues with her woes. Woes she knows not, for according to Rosalie, I cannot bed my wife, not yet, regardless of how hale she appears. Neither will her womb be healed sufficiently for bedding in four days' time, when I must depart. But I can kiss her wildly as I have done since my return, and I plan to do so before I depart on my errands this morn. Therefore, as much as I have always held Mrs. Clearwater in deep respect and affection, she is in the way, and I prepare to thank her for her advice before asking her to leave and shut the door. Nevertheless, I cannot resist teasing her some more first.

"The young master cannot speak sense for he cannot speak yet, Mrs. Clearwater," reply I.

"I speak to _you_ ," Mrs. Clearwater chastises now, "not to the young master."

"Isabella," I say to my wife, "this 'Young Edward' and 'Young master' business may become a bit befuddling. We shall have to find a way to differentiate between my son and I or the household shall be in uproar."

"You make sport of the business," says Mrs. Clearwater, frowning now as she sees Isabella and I withhold our mutual amusement, "but should the mistress's father, Major Swan, learn that his daughter does not even employ a wet nurse, he shall have even more to say than he already does regarding the supposed barbaric nature of colonists."

"I care not a whit," I sneer, "for what-"

"Dear Mrs. Clearwater, I apologize," Isabella intercedes before I say something I may or may not regret regarding her father. "We were indeed making sport, and 'twas badly done. My excuse is that I have barely slept for a fortnight. My husband's excuse is that he needs fresh air. Either way, my father knows well I have been of a contradictory nature my entire life. Furthermore, he is a reserved Englishman, and should he ever learn, which I do not see how he would, that I dare nurse my own child, he would be too embarrassed at being possessed of such womanly knowledge to be shocked by it."

I grin ruefully at my wife, for even a fortnight birthed and weary, her mind is sharper and her words better planned than are mine. Yet, as the mischievous sparkle in Isabella's eyes is doused, my grin withers.

"What is more, though word has been sent to Father regarding Edward George's birth, and my husband and I agreed that I should welcome Father into our home should he be prepared to come as a grandfather and not as a soldier, I have not heard back…and I do not believe he shall come." She finishes with a sigh as she looks back down at Edward George with a melancholic smile. "Worry not, Mrs. Clearwater."

….

My wife has taught me how to bundle a folded, clean linen around Edward George's bottom so that he does not soil the entire household every hour or so.

"Secure the pins carefully, Edward. Do not prick him." Her tone holds more than a hint of warning, even from the other side of the bed, where she is currently changing out of her shift and donning her day clothes.

"Wife, I am perfectly capable of securing my son's clean linens without pricking him. Is that not right, young Edward?" I say, grinning down at my son.

He utters unintelligible sounds in reply, squirming about like an eel.

"Correct, my son. Do you see? Even he says his father is…" I trail off, for I have looked up, only meaning to flash my eyes toward my wife for an instant, but she is pure beauty, and I cannot tear my eyes away.

Even had I not spent months lost in the wilderness, wet and sick, eating carcasses, and with such frigidness in my bones I have still not warmed properly, only to arrive to a losing battle…the sight of her long, dark, and silky hair cascading down to her waist, for she has not pinned it yet…her full, swollen breasts, for her corset is not on yet…her plump and round-

A shriek from my son and a sharp gasp from my wife swiftly return my eyes to my duty. Edward George's face turns a shade to match his hair. He opens his mouth, and for a handful of seconds, no sound erupts. When it does, 'tis a wail that pierces my heart and my eardrums with equal pain.

"Edward, you pricked him!"

Such remorse instantly courses through me, my blood runs cold.

"My boy, I am so incredibly-" I move to lift him from the bed, but Isabella swoops in like a hawk, shoves me aside, and before I have blinked, he is in her arms.

I lift my arms to enclose them both within, but Isabella shrugs me off as she rocks our son in her arms.

"I am sorry, my love. I should have changed you myself. I am so sorry."

When I note she is crying along with him, I am ready to fall to my knees in apology. Once more, I attempt to pull them into my embrace, and though she fights me at first, she is too consumed with crying and rocking our son to push hard. Finally, I have them both in my hold.

"Isabella," I whisper, "I am sorry."

"'Tis not _I_ you pricked," sobs she.

"You are correct. Son, I am sorry," I say, brushing my lips against our son's soft forehead. His wails have quieted to broken sobs.

"Why were you not paying attention to what you did?"

"I became distracted," I admit, swallowing thickly. "You are so very lovely, and I missed your body so."

Isabella's sobs cease, and her eyes meet mine, dark and full of tears. Between us, our son's broken sobs have quieted as well, now occasional whimpers.

"I am not so very lovely now. I see not why you were distracted."

I drop my head further to her eye level. "Are you jesting with me?"

She holds my gaze but does not immediately reply. "Rosalie says those few husbands she knows who have witnessed their child's birth have a difficult time…seeing their wives as women afterward. 'Tis one of the reasons women suggest men leave whilst their wives are giving birth."

"I ask again, are you jesting with me?"

"How can you desire me when I be less than fortnight birthed?" asks she in a whisper.

"Even much less than a fortnight birthed I desired you - a day birthed likely," reply I thickly. By now, our son has fallen asleep once more, his small chest rising and falling in my periphery.

"Now _you_ jest," she accuses, while I shake my head. "But you cannot have me," my wife breathes. "Not for a month after birthing."

"I am aware – teasing hellion." When I smirk, she chuckles, but her chuckle soon fades.

"And you shall not be here when I am one month birthed."

I swallow hard. "I am aware," I breathe.

We are both silent. Finally, Isabella exhales.

"I pricked him as well yesterday, when you were bathing."

I snort and kiss her forehead.

"Between us both, he shall be full of holes," she sighs.

"He shall be fine," I smile. "See? He sleeps peacefully, as if nothing happened. I believe the prick hurt us more than it hurt him."

"Perhaps," she smiles softly.

"He is a Cullen, strong and hale. We Cullen men bear pain well."

Isabella chuckles quietly, and as our son drifts into slumber between us, our lips meet and brush, followed by our tongues.

"I wonder..." breathes she against my mouth.

"What do you wonder?"

She does not immediately reply. When she does, she says, "I love you, Edward."

"I love you, Isabella," I whisper against her lips. "Now, I must go run my errand before you attempt to stop me."

"You know me well. Return soon."

ooooo

"Edward! This be a pleasant surprise." Emmett's voice is as loud and boisterous as usual, despite the mourning in which he must be regardless of the fool his father was. No matter what, a sire is a sire.

"Come in, come in," he further invites.

He leads me within, his large footsteps loud and heavy upon the wooden floors, announcing our direction to all and sundry. Thankfully, he be not this way when out of the house, for a stealthier fellow soldier no man could ever want.

"Rosalie, see who visits us so unexpectedly," announces he as into the sitting hall we arrive. 'Tis a comfortable parlor with sparse yet charming furnishings. Duncan McCarty was a gifted craftsman, I shall give the man his due on that much, at the very least. He taught his son his craft, and his wife, a much kinder person than was ever he and wonderful at weaving, taught her skill to both her daughter and daughter-in-law. The result is warm and lovely rugs hanging on sturdy walls and topping handsome seats.

McCarty Farm as a whole is adequately-sized for the once five main occupants: Duncan McCarty, his wife Mary, Emmett and his wife, Rosalie, and Katrina McCarty. It would have comfortably held a child or two as well, had Emmett and Rosalie been blessed with such. Now, the home is down to three occupants. What is more, the cries of children of their own under Emmett and Rosalie's roof appears not to be their lot.

'Tis strange; less than a fortnight earlier, the thought of never hearing the cries of my own children under Cullen Hill's roof did little more than cause a twinge of disappointment to stir within me. The twinge was surely outweighed by concern for my wife's well-being and concerns regarding the success or failure of our revolution.

However, now, the thought of a life absent of Edward George…of not having his lusty cries fill our chambers nightly when he wakes hungry for his mama's breast, the thought of never hearing his gurgling swallows as he sates himself, never feeling him in my arms afterward as I cradle him into slumber so that his mother may obtain her rest as well…these thoughts make my heart feel as if 'tis being ripped from my chest.

For a moment, I know not how Emmett and Rosalie bear it, the lack of a child borne of their love. But then, you cannot truly miss what you have not had, which in Emmett and Rosalie's case be a blessing.

"Edward, what do you here?" Rosalie asks as she stands to curtsy, and I offer her a bow. In her hands, she holds knitting implements.

"So much wonder, I begin to think I am not welcome," I say, grinning.

"Nonsense," contradict both she and her husband almost as one.

"You know you are always welcome in our home, Edward, but is all well with Isabella and young Edward?" the former further inquires. And now I note the frown of concern which mars her features, for the woman adores my son. Simultaneously, a stillness comes over Emmett, for he adores whatever his wife adores.

"Edward is hale, hearty, fat, and hungry," I reply to set her at ease, "just as he was two days ago, when you last visited. And his mother is all that his hale and lovely, though weary from lack of sleep."

Here, Rosalie sets a palm upon her chest and visibly exhales. "Forgive me." She smiles now.

"There is nothing to forgive," say I. "I thank you for your concern, and once more thank you for all you did for Isabella in my absence."

"'Tis only we never thought to see you so far from your wife and son before 'tis time for us to depart," Emmett further explains.

At this reminder that I must soon leave my wife and son behind, my grin fades.

"Again, I would never take offense to either of your concern for my son and my wife. Aye, 'tis the confidence in your affection…and your trust in us which has brought me to your door this morn, for I must discuss a subject I wish I did not have to. And with my wife birthed less than a fortnight, I do not want to speak of such things in our home, though she knows I be on this errand and she sanctions it however begrudgingly."

Emmett now frowns deeply, his features set in obvious confusion. "Our affection and trust you have."

"Aye. Please, sit, Edward," says Rosalie much more sedately, and with her expression less one of confusion, for perhaps she suspects my purpose. She gestures to a bench opposite the upholstered chair on which they sit. The bench's seat has been softened with a thick rug weaved with red and yellow flowers throughout.

"I thank you both," I say and adjust myself, for this conversation may be long and awkward.

"Would you like some tea?" Rosalie offers.

"Nay, I thank you. Mrs. Clearwater sent me off with a hearty breaking of the fast before scampering off to assist Leah and Isabella with the babe in my absence. How one, minute being requires so many hands to ensure its comfort, I only begin to comprehend."

At this, Rosalie chuckles. "Please tell Isabella I shall stop in tomorrow to see her and the babe. I have missed them these two days, but Emmett and I agree the three of you are due time alone." She offers Emmett, who sits next to her, a side-long smile, and he swiftly picks up her hand and weaves their fingers together.

"Edward, I suspect I know the reason for your visit. Please, speak openly and confidently."

I draw in a breath and release it heavily. "Very well. Is your sister here?"

"Nay," says he, shaking his head. "She has not taken the news of Father's death in Quebec well. Normally, 'twould be touching to know she misses her sire so severely, but all she does is moan about how he was the only one who truly loved her."

Rosalie rolls her eyes. "Since yours and Emmett's return and the news of Duncan's death, she takes daily walks. I would commend such a practice and such desire for solitary introspection. However, 'tis almost a fortnight of such walks, and they do not appear to have altered her state of mind."

"She is…a difficult woman," Emmett nods. With a sigh, he draws closer to me. "Edward, Rosalie has informed me of how disrespectful and out of hand Katrina behaved in Isabella's and your home while you and I were away. What is more, Rosalie has also informed me of how Katrina locked herself in her room when Isabella was in travail and made no attempt to assist. I am heartily ashamed, and I assure you, I have spoken to her and made it clear to her that when we next depart, she must show respect-"

I shake my head as she speaks. "She cannot stay at Cullen Hill when next you and I depart."

Emmett reels back. "Edward…she was grievously wrong. Isabella is your wife, and mistress of your home, but my sister is a single maiden, and she cannot remain alone- unless you mean Rosalie should remain here as well, and I cannot allow that – not in these uncertain times."

"I certainly do not mean Rosalie should remain here as well. Neither Isabella nor I would ever abide it. Your wife is as much sister to Isabella and I as you are brother to us. 'Tis why we asked you both to be godparents to Edward George."

"I thank you," he nods, "but-"

"There are things you do not know, Emmett; things I shall tell you now, and which I would say in front of your sister were she here, but I shall not wait for her to arrive." I shake my head.

"Please go on," he nods.

"Two nights ago, Isabella confessed to me that the evening she went into labor, the evening you and I arrived to Cullen Hill and I found Isabella mid-hill, fallen in the snow, your sister espied her from her window and did nothing."

Both Emmett and Rosalie's eyes grow wide in shock. For a few seconds, neither speaks. Emmett attempts it once or twice before his voice finally returns.

"How…? I… Is Isabella completely sure…?"

I shake my head. "Isabella claims she is not completely sure. 'Twas dark, says she. She was frightened and in travail. She says it may have been a trick of her mind, of her fear, of the cold."

"Well then-" Emmett begins.

"Isabella's mind does not play tricks on her due to fear or cold – or much else."

'Tis Rosalie who speaks. Emmett's eyes sweep toward her.

"I am sorry, my dear husband, but 'tis the truth of it." Rosalie looks at me. "Why did she not say anything of it to me?"

"She wanted to discuss it with me first," I reply, "for she did truly fear she had imagined it, and she feared if she told you-"

"I would tell my husband straight away, which of course, I would."

I nod.

Emmett knows not what to say nor where to look.

"Emmett…" I wait for him to meet my eyes, "Emmett, you do recall the night in your cellar after Isabella snuck into my tavern. 'Twas your sister, if you will recall," I say slowly and carefully," who was anxious to ride Isabella to the Pinelands and abandon her there to the wolves."

"I do not believe she truly meant-"

"Emmett, there is more." I scrub a hand down my face for as much as it pains me, I must continue. My eyes stray to Rosalie.

"Your face is as scarlet as is your son's hair. Would you like me to leave the room?" she asks.

"Nay." I draw in a breath. "That same night we returned, while Isabella was upstairs in our chambers," I say through gritted teeth, "and I rushed outdoors to wash the muck off myself to assist her…your sister followed me out and watched me bathe. What is more, she refused to leave until I told her to go assist my wife, at which point she ran back and locked herself in her chambers."

By this point, Emmett is ashen. Rosalie squeezes his hand tightly within hers.

"And one more-"

Emmett puts up a hand, palm out. "Edward, if you are trying to convince me of all the reasons why Katrina is no longer welcome at Cullen Hill, you have given me more than sufficient."

"Unfortunately, there is one more, and I shall not keep it from you."

Emmett's mouth forms a tight line before he nods once sharply.

"I have come to the conclusion that the morning after Isabella and I wed, when we awoke to her father and half of his regiment holding their muskets to Cullen Hill and demanding Isabella's return…'twas not your father, Duncan, who informed the major. Your father and I rarely saw eye to eye on much, but his hatred of the redcoats surpassed that of most men. He would not have gone to Isabella's father."

"And think you Katrina would have approached Isabella's father? She hates him as well."

"Aye, she does," I nod. "But…along with the rest of us, Katrina was once friends with James. She would have gone to James, and James to Isabella's father, both of them in the hopes there was still time to separate Isabella and I."

The silence which ensues is tense and awkward.

"It makes sense, husband," Rosalie finally says. "Katrina was devastated by the knowledge that Edward would wed Isabella. She would have gone to James to attempt to separate them."

Emmett cups a hand over his mouth. "Since she was a young girl, she expected to marry you."

"Emmett, you know I never made her any promises. In fact, I had no intention of marrying until the state of our nation was resolved. But when Isabella entered my life…"

"Aye," he smiles weakly. "Aye, I understand. I recall how you looked at her from the very beginning." He shakes his head and his smile withers. "What am I to do with her now? Regardless, she is my sister, and I must ensure her safety before we depart."

"Of course. But I must ensure my wife and my son's safety, and I do not trust your sister around them."

Emmett holds my gaze and says nothing.

"She has done this to herself," Rosalie says.

"She must marry," Emmett says.

We three are silent.

"I abhor the thought of forcing a woman into marriage," Rosalie says, "yet…there is no choice."

"But who?" Emmett wonders.

I stand. "I am afraid the rest of it is a discussion in which I cannot partake."

Emmett stands as well.

"Emmett," I say warily, "I truly hope this conversation has not damaged our friendship, but my wife and my son are my priorities."

"As they should be," he says firmly. "As my wife is always my priority." Emmett lays a heavy hand on my shoulder. "I am upset, but not at you, brother."

"I am sorry to have brought you such news, but I am glad our friendship shall not suffer."

He offers me another weak smile.

"Now, I shall depart, for we have very little time left with our wives and-"

The front door suddenly opens, and footsteps are heard approaching.

"This damnable snow! I hate it. I despise it. I-"

Katrina enters the room with a scowl upon her face, and espying, she comes to a halt.

"Edward," she breathes, pulling down her hood. "What do you here? How are you? Please sit." She offers me a broad smile. "Would you like some tea to warm-"

I shake my head and hold her gaze stoically. "I am leaving, Katrina. I came to speak to your brother and your sister-in-law, and now, I shall return to my wife and son." With those words, I turn back to Emmett and offer him a nod, then to Rosalie and bow my head.

I neither speak nor look at Katrina as I depart.

ooooo

My heart is heavy as I return home, for though I know I had no choice, it pains me to cause Emmett such grief and to know he must now determine a suitable situation for his sister in the few days we have left. Yet, as I told him, my wife and son and their safety are my priority. I will not have that woman under the same roof as them.

"Heartless wretch," I scowl, as I recall how I found my wife fallen in the snow, and Katrina having seen it happen and done nothing. "She and Edward George could have perished," I seethe aloud atop Isabella's mare, Hope. "In which case, I would have dismembered…"

I trail off as I spot an unfamiliar horse atop the hill and in front of my house. Aye, the horse is unknown…but the scarlet, royal cloak atop it and the golden decorations on its ears easily mark it for the red-coated beast it be.

My blood runs cold.

"Hope, let us see how fast your ride!" And as I kick Hope hard, I pull out my musket and ready it through my blind fury.

 **A/N: Thoughts?**

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